As he wandered the abandoned corridor, stopping to look down each intersecting hallway - likewise abandoned, he felt more and more uneasy. He was in the wrong place. No guards. No prisoners. Somehow he'd blundered either into the wrong quadrant or the wrong floor of this massive building. Hastings would need him to draw attention, to cover his escape, and here was Percy wandering silent halls and facing endless closed doors. He began trying doorknobs and opening unlocked doors, peeking inside. Offices. Store rooms. A grim chamber where a lone chair bolted to the floor had been affixed with restraints made him shudder. At the same moment that another phalanx of heavy boots traversed over his head he opened a door concealing a stone stairway. A musty dankness rose from the place - and the drone of voices. Ah - the prison cells! Now he was on the right track! Percy moved slowly, leaning on the stick as if he needed it to walk, prepared to come face to face with a revolutionary guard or two, but before that happened a shout halted him in his tracks.

"Aller chercher! Vous, l'assiste."

That voice - he knew that voice as surely as he knew his own. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Percy sighed in gratitude. Despite every damn obstacle, damnation, but his friends were the best, ablest . . .

But, if Ffoulkes was here, negotiating with the guards for access to St. Just and Hastings was combing the cells from the other direction, those two were bound to meet up - and this was not the best place to create the much-needed diversion.

Percy reversed back up the stairway, returning to the offices, threading his way back towards the door . . . but something was different up here. Earlier all the doors had been closed, this time there is a pool of light striping one of the corridors. Someone was working late . . . Percy felt a twinge in his belly and knew without a doubt who the night-hawk would be: Chauvelin. If anyone began to doubt the veracity was what was taking place below-stairs they would come up here in search of Chauvelin - and this was where they would run into their diversion.

Percy scanned the corridor seeking, then finding, the chimney. He and hunkered down, leaning his back to the narrow side of the flue to wait. From somewhere deep in his memory he remembered a song, something his nurse used to sing to him. He closed his eyes and allowed the tune to lull him while with half his mind he listened to the droning silence, waiting for the sound of approaching footsteps.

Percy huddled in his dirty cloth coat noting how the toes of his boots stuck out several inches beyond the brick chimney. Lord, he had BIG feet! He was glad that he was wearing plain black boots that wouldn't draw attention to his hiding place in the darkened hall. As long as he remained perfectly still his huge shadow filling most of the wall wouldn't betray him either.

His thoughts had progressed from snatches of nursery song to the uprising Hastings had mentioned. All of Paris was in turmoil, every other citizen shaken to the marrow with fear at the whisper of Chauvelin's name. Percy He had been shocked at the oppressive atmosphere permeating all of Paris: haunted eyes looking out of pinched faces and everyone pausing every few steps to look over their shoulders. Fear was everywhere.

Percy raised his head from his arms and shifted his weight. He was no good at waiting; he preferred to make things happen - but it would be wrong to suppose that he was on the offensive when it came to Citizen Chauvelin. Percy always won because he was always on the defensive when it came to the inspector.

Up to now, their confrontations had been nothing more than smoke and mirrors. A bit of sleight of hand with a candlestick and in the darkness Sir Percy had fled. Or a feint with a fist that had made Chauvelin duck, and in that moment Percy had fled. It wasn't the most becoming way of facing an adversary, but then Chauvelin had access to more deadly implements of torture than any ordinary foe. Percy was filled with a gnawing uncertainty. Waiting! How he loathed waiting. There was no stepping back from the precipice this time: Percy knew it the moment he heard the resounding thud of boots on the floor and a snarling voice shouting "Watch where you're going!" Chauvelin. Deliberately, Percy stretched out his feet into the corridor and braced for the impact. Well, Hastings needed a diversion . . . and this would certainly stop the inspector.

Chauvelin's boots impacted Percy's, Blakeney shoved himself up onto his feet just in time to see the inspector come to a halt a meter down the corridor. An absurd sight to be sure, Percy thought, with a chuckle before biting his quivering lip. It was no laughing matter - not this time.

Chauvelin lay still only an instant before rolling over onto his back. A glint of metal flashed in the dark: a weapon. Most of the time Chauvelin was unprepared to face Blakeney, but he'd known it would be different this time. La Force was enemy territory after all.

"So sorry to have inconvenienced you," Percy said soberly, bowing automatically, then halting mid-motion. Instead he stepped forward and offered the man a hand up, knowing as he did so that the inspector wouldn't take it. He would spit on it or bite it first.

Chauvelin's eyes never left Blakeney's face as he got to his feet, the pistol never wavered an inch through the process either.

"Ah, my dear Chauvelin. Not everything is as complicated as your revolutionary friends make them. Some things are as simple as opening the door and walking through it." Percy mimed opening the door and took a step toward Chauvelin just as the guards arrived.

Chauvelin wiped at the blood on his face with his palm, wincing a little as his finger touched his nose. If it was broken it wouldn't do much to hinder the inspector's chances with the fair sex, Percy mused, seeing as how Chauvelin had little enough success as it was. He opened his mouth to share that sentiment, then rethought and said instead, "I have fulfilled my role; forgive the lack of challenge."

He offered a limp salute as Chauvelin took a second swipe at his cheek, streaking his ruffled cuffs with blood. "Blood on your hands, chief inspector?" Percy pointed out with pseudo-gravity. "Routine for you, I'm sure."

Chauvelin didn't take well to being goaded - which Percy knew. He fixed the inspector with a look of contempt meant to push him into some impulsive act he could then ponder and curse himself over at his leisure.

"Charming." Percy said, taking in the arrival of the guards who surrounded them both. They assumed a posture rigid as guard dogs. Percy raised his hands level with his shoulders.

"I happily surrender my insignificant person in place of your lost Saint-Just. Somewhat mangled was he? Rather the worse for wear? Typical that you and yours would take out your temper on a mere boy."

The sparring was having its effect - Blakeney saw temper flare in Chauvelin's face where the beginnings of a bruise was already purpling his cheek. Chauvelin touched his cravat. Beneath Sir Percy's blue gaze he began to fiddle with the uneven edges nervously. I've got you, Percy mused. You know exactly what you want to do with me, but what you want and what you can have are two different things. You're tied to procedure - and these witnesses will ensure I keep my life for at least another day. You'd love to trample me - I can see it in your eyes. You don't understand that the pain is nothing to me. I was raised on physical pain; it clears my head. You will never understand how to really hurt me, whereas I read you and your demons as if they were writ upon your narrow forehead.

Percy tried not to smirk down on the little man from his superior height. He quelled his impatience to get on with the game, watching Chauvelin alternately dab at the blood and fiddle with his imperfect cravat.

The lazy eyes flared to life at Chauvelin's words. "Marguerite?" he whispered, all cockiness vanished.

"You only just missed her," Chauvelin said with a grin that was closer to a sneer and the force with which Percy carefully controlled his emotions began to splinter.

Meanwhile, Chauvelin continued to pound at Percy with words heavily delivered. Spoken slowly so that the "idiot" would clearly understand his meaning: "Marguerite can stand trial in her brother's stead."

Antagonism sizzled in the air between the two men and Percy averted his gaze against a wave of anguish for Margot's safety and frustration at her blithely wandering away from the safety net he'd provided her in England to barter her life for her brother's with unscrupulous Chauvelin.

Blakeney was still reeling from the multiple shocks to his system when Chauvelin delivered the final taunt: "I wondered if she was acting on her husband's orders, but then what husband would ask his wife to degrade herself so?"

The words fell without weight, like hollow shells. He'd thought himself clever - damned clever - to have sprung the trap for Armand and ensured all his men got away, certain that whatever Chauvelin may plan for him would be nothing for him to bear compared to conjured fears for the fate of friends; now he saw that he was helpless to aid she who mattered to him most.

Maintaining an unnatural calm, Percy blanked his mind of these poisonous, defeated thoughts, plucked up his courage and forced himself to present to Chauvelin a bland, unworried countenance. As he did so he observed a second bruise purpling the inspector's jaw below the puffy lurid one covering his cheek. Spontaneously Percy sketched an extravagant bow. "I am your humble servant, sir," he said in his most laconic drawl, then returned his hands palms upward, level with his shoulders.

Percy drew an uneven breath. They'd been waiting for him as he knew they would be. Chauvelin was so cheery, so gay, Percy expected him to break out in one of those semi-wild carmagnole dances; Blakeney held his peace and allowed the other to steep in his euphoria.

There were more than enough guards about, Chauvelin had no need of tying Blakeney and Sir Percy went willingly towards the provided accommodation. He gave only a fleeting glance at the narrow cell. Dark it was and smelling heavily of old smoke and mildew.

At a signal from Chauvelin, one of the guards departed, then returned with a lamp which he hooked upon a chain that hung from the centre of the ceiling. Chauvelin's grey eyes were disconcertingly direct as he waved a cheery welcome like a house-proud matron, inviting his prey to examine his cage. In the flickering, smoky light Sir Percy gazed up at the grimy ceiling, then down at the floor that was dark in a way that spoke of near-continual damp.

Not a single window - not so much as a crack for ventilation. But he was lucky over all for Chauvelin had provided a cell with a cot and not only a bale of straw on the floor. Despite this one luxury Percy reminded himself that this was La Force after all. Well-guarded. Over-crowded. What sort of trap had he won for himself? He faced Chauvelin with what he hoped was an impassive grace and spoke in a tone devoid of the panic he felt.

"A private room? How gracious of you." Percy sketched a perfect bow. There wasn't a chair, but someone had abandoned a chest in this place. Abandoned it long ago for its surface was thick with dust and filth, but it would serve as chair and table both. In the darkest corner (and that was a very rudimentary judgement) there stood a tiny iron stove, black and cold, but suggesting there could be heat in this place. Winter was nearly upon them. No doubt Chauvelin expected him to grace them with his presence for some time to come.

Blakeney turned to face Chauvelin whose back was to the door. The door. Probably six inches thick and solid - not planks - a solid oak door. But it was inset with a grille . . . had to be since there was no other way for air to circulate. It was a large grille, over 2 metres tall by about 3 1/2 metres wide and filled in with iron bars that looked thicker than a man's finger. No hope - not that Sir Percy had expected any. It had to be this way to complete the gleeful inspector's revenge. He had known it would be thus; indeed, he would have been surprised at anything less. He'd known coming here that revenge was the order of the day and the taking of it would be sweet indeed for Chauvelin who was grinning, showing white teeth, sharp and even.

"But Armand needn't worry, Marguerite's life now depends on you. Should you escape, or should I fail to contact my man at a specific hour, he has order to put a bullet between her eyes."

Blakeney crossed to the cot and dropped heavily onto it. It didn't bounce - no springs. Well, that had been too mucch to hope for, he supposed. "When shall I meet the rest of your august committee, Chauvelin? Your inquisitors, necromancers and poisoners? My appointment calendar is at your disposal."

Chauvelin stared, his eyes growing dark as he momentarily forgot he had the upper hand, then once again that disarming grin appeared.

"Funny," he muttered. "Too funny."

It was an irony that peasants often had quite nice teeth as compared to the nobility. The chewing of hard bread, the avoidance of treacly desserts, these things showed over time. Chief Inspector Chauvelin sported the broadest of satisfied grins and Percy was taken aback at winking dimples on either side of the smile. God in heaven, was this the face Marguerite had fallen in love with? The other side to the taciturn bully? It was a thought he'd have time enough to pursue.

With each moment of delay, as Chauvelin strutted the floor of the narrow prison cell, Percy felt certain that his league were safely away. It was as he'd anticipated: the capture of the leader would eliminate all need to chase down the accomplices. For certain Hastings was safely away with Armand. Ffoulkes and Dewhurst were probably safe as well.

"There is the matter of Lady Blakeney," Chauvelin said. "By all rights she should follow you to the guillotine."

Percy sat grimly silent. Trying to focus on the new, far more dramatic surprise of Marguerite's arrest. He'd ensured her safety in England - for what? To be tormented now when he needed a clear head. But rage was useless. Self-defeating. Besides, he could see how she'd fallen for Chauvelin's ploy; her love for Armand had always been her vulnerability. Percy felt only a piercing need to hide the wounding blow of knowing she was in danger and he was powerless to help her. The hows and whys he would dissect later, and he was certain to have time a-plenty for that.

Percy had been twirling his seal ring with a seemingly bored indifference as he ordered his thoughts, and then the intent of Chauvelin's words struck him: "You have the chance to spare her."

Percy had to admit he'd expected this - why else would Chauvelin have gone to such trouble to lure her to France . . .

Lure her. Armand had never been the target - it had always been him. No wonder the escape had been that simple when every guard in the city should have been on the lookout for him, why there was no pursuit of Armand or the league.

"I should have guessed," Percy said softly, and then, "God-cursed fool!"

Chauvelin was still grinning; truly the little man was having more fun than a kid at a carnival. Percy grinned back in spite of himself.

"I wish I had my hat, Chauvelin, that I might doff it to you. An inspired move. I truly had no conception of what you were about."

Blakeney stood and offered another embarrassingly deep obeisance. He chuckled his inane little laugh and sighed in chagrin at himself.

"God's blood, but Tony would laugh at me now. You've done me a service Chauvelin in keeping me well out of his sight." Percy flopped back onto the cot, lying flat and shoving his hands beneath his head. "The tongue-lashing I'd get from him would curl even your stick-straight hair."

Chauvelin, pacing, paused a moment to watch, then continued to pace the narrow floor. Back and forth, back and forth. If there were rats - and there must be - they'd best be hiding to avoid being flattened by the flat-footed inspector.

"Lady Blakeney," Chauvelin said, returning to his subject. Reminding Percy that they had a subject to discuss.

"I shudder to think of what her final days will be like." The words were cunning. Appealing. Begging Blakeney to take the bait. Did he have a choice? Not if he expected to see his wife alive ever again. Percy gazed up from the cot passively, his heavy eyelids drooping as if he might nod off to sleep were the inspector to stop talking.

"Alone in a prison cell, no one to protect her..."

"Yes, yes, Chauvelin. As you say, you have all the cards. You've the trump and the aces, and I'd say you've won. So get on with it and tell me what you expect me to do."

"But I . . ." Chauvelin began, then halted, refusing to be baited by the baronet.

"Oh I heard what you said," Percy said, propping himself up with an elbow. "A list of names. You know I can't do that. You did know I wouldn't do that, didn't you, Shovel-in? Surely you comprehend that I have a pint more integrity than your revolutionary friends. It just ain't cricket as we say, to write up a list, to name names and point fingers."

No sooner had Chauvelin exited the cell, than Sir Percy rolled onto his side into a fetal position. God, he wanted to cry - cry like a baby. Cry like a fool. Chauvelin had Marguerite, thanks to her complete lack of faith in him - and had one of his devoted league-ers as well. Which? Not Ffoulkes? Or - no! he wouldn't even think that it might be Tony. Not Tony, dear God! The Duke of Exeter would see Blakeney lashed to ribbons should anything happen to his beloved son. Exeter, like all men of title, adored his sons with unreasoning pride and Tony had been over-indulged as only the son of a man of extreme wealth and the dreadful misfortune of having had many sons born and die young will cherish a surviving nestling. Oh far better it would be for him to die now by Chauvelin's hand than discover that it was young Dewhurst who was held in La Force.

Already the cell was cooling. It was dingy and dark. With no window there was only the stray light of the odd torch to light the murky shadows of this lonely place. He curled tighter on the cot with eyes closed and tried to think through his grief.

Margot had no reason to trust him - just as he had no reason to trust her. No reason to expect anything save betrayal at her hand. With eyes shut tight the ambience of the place seemed to float all around him: the smoke of the torches, a lingering scent of vomit. A ka-thunk-thunk-thunk from somewhere above him that suggested a cart rolling along a floor. And what else? The murmur of voices not too far off. Guards, of course. He was not likely to have been stashed near any other prisoners - Chauvelin was too cleaver for that. . . . who else had been taken? He wished he knew - but he would be damned if he would beg Chauvelin for news. That was what the skunk wanted from him - to see him beg. To picture him discomfitted. . . . perhaps that was the idea. Percy sat up and stared into the darkness toward the outline of the grille on the door. Chauvelin was all but dancing in his joy at capturing the Pimpernel. In holding Marguerite. Bonus in having captured a league-member. Chauvelin would be toasting himself in the finest champagne tonight. Would be seeking an eating house that still had the wherewithal to serve a chicken dinner. Would be talking to himself (Percy doubted the man had a single friend he might celebrate with) and patting himself on the back. Suddenly the grillework darkened, and the outline of light disappeared. Clank-clank - a key working in the door. A human outline was edged in the doorway. "Vive la republique!" it said, thumping its chest, then taking a further step forward. "It is committee orders that you are not to be allowed to sleep." "I'm awake. See? I'm sitting here a-counting my toes. Un, deux, trois . . ." The guard spun around, exited, slamming the door behind him. "Uh, vive your republique yourself, man!" Percy called after him.