The League

He'd taken the trouble of hiring a sporty calash since he'd never been to Shipwash Manor before and it was all the way in Surrey. If he had a good time (drank a lot) he didn't want to fall off his horse in the night. Deuced frustrating to wake up in the ditch with the horse long gone and himself bleary and wet. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, lover of danger, was attempting to reform himself - all in the name of love. If he intended to be worthy of the sterling Mademoiselle du Tournai he had to become responsible. Civilized. Dependable. Okay, he wasn't dependable after a party such as he hoped this may be, hence the rental of the calash.

Shipwash Manor was a huge country house and Surrey the perfect spot for it. It crowned a hill and was surrounded by trees that were lit with coloured lanterns to pin-point the drive and entrance. Andrew showed his invitation to a footman with the bearing of a general - god if the man were with the army the English would be sure to win! With a fearsome look he scrutinized Andrew then the guest list. Ffoulkes imagined the man, despite Lady Shipwash's generosity, was determined to ensure only the finest people were let into the party. Dare he hope this might mean there would be a really decent supper? He certainly hoped there would be roast chicken. Sir Andrew loved roast chicken nearly as much as he adored pretty Suzanne du Tournai. And what were the chances his French sweetheart would put in an appearance?

A major domo announced, "Sir Andrew Ffoulkes" into a crowded central hall. Scarcely a head turned. Oh dear. Well, on the one hand, he would be an unknown which meant he would have to cultivate conversations from the ground up (requiring an immediate glass of fortifying brandy) but on the other hand there should be all manner of lovely women to meet and dance with. Would anyone come close to the beauty of Lady Blakeney? Andrew was determined to dance with her above all. He would have to be ever so circumspect around Suzanne, or her mother would have him escorted out of the place by the hair - he knew her type! His dream would be to take Suzanne walking on the lantern-lit terrace and seek a dark corner where he might kiss her - the kiss he'd wheedled from her in Calais had singed him to the marrow, but it was probably too much to hope for. He would keep his eye on Suzanne, but pay the most attention to Lady Blakeney, and that would diffuse any suspicions the Countess du Tournai may have. Suzanne was above reproach and Andrew wanted to ensure her reputation remained as pure as silver until the day he married her.

Known for being tardy to nearly every social function he was required to attend, MacKensie had arrived unnaturally early to the party. He was a quiet fellow, without a taste for the high end social spectrum that England had found so demanding for its upper-class, but he always gave in at the end. It would not be looked upon fondly if he did not rear his shy head once in a while and grace a gala or event.

He had spotted Bathurst immediately -- how could he not, with the stunning Spaniard at the man's side. Hers was a face he had never seen before. New to England, no doubt.

He began to cross the hall towards his former schoolmate, but another familiar face caught his eye. Hastings was there -- and in search of someone, by the looks of it. He excused himself from the prattling matron who had attached herself to his side the moment he walked through the door and quickly made his way through the throng of people, trying to catch up with his friend.

If one must attend such a distastefully boring event, it was wise to do so in good company.

He knew Percy was already there - knew it for a fact. He had spied Lady Blakeney from a distance and knew for a fact that Percy would not allow his wife out unescourted especially at this time. If Chauvelin did know where Armand was then he might be working with Armand�s influential sister. Percy needed to know.

A stir of color out of the corner of his eye, drew his attention to his colleague and friend, Edward MacKensie. �I say MacKensie you are a sight for sore eyes!� Hastings cried greeting his friend. �I was just wonderin� what on earth happened to you and, sink me, there you are. And what a demmed fine coat that is!� Hastings took the opportunity of examining the coat to look and see if they were being watched, then used the pretence of examining the needlework on the breast of the jacket to lean in close and whisper, �We need to get a message to Percy. He must know that Chauvelin may be involved in Armand Saint-Just�s disappearance.�

She was a vision, this dainty brunette who floated next to him as they twirled and skipped around the ballroom. Pretty as a newly bloomed hyacinth and pert in her manner, demanding, "Well, no one sees you Sir Andrew. No one! My mother said she believed you'd taken up with an actress, but I stuck up for you. Oh no, mama, I said, it's most likely Sir Andrew is at home in Scotland. Fishing. I'm right, now, aren't I?"

"Yes Miss Dunstable, I fear you are correct. My uh . . . time has been spent in utter peace at home." What a liar he was, and getting better at muttering falsehoods to gullible young ladies. When he was married, he'd be able to face Suzanne and tell her the sky was green with such conviction, she'd believe him.

"This has been one of the most boring seasons on record for yours is not the only notable absence. Dewhurst - not that I miss him - and Hastings. I was saying to someone the other day that if we made a list of the ten handsomest men we'd have to write gone away and who knows where beside each name."

"Is that right?" Andrew asked, taking both Sarah's hands in his and marching her through a figure 8. He hadn't remembered her as a chatterbox. His eyes darted around the other couples in his circle and he had to admit he knew no one. "I was under the impression there were a few new families about . . . to fill all these empty chairs you speak of. �migr� families. The Scarlet Pimpernel, you know, rescuing people from the guillotine. Have you met anyone like that?"

"Perhaps his presence is more for show," Hastings replied as his eyes settled on Desgas. "Everyone keeps watch for him while the more practiced spies mingle in. I can't imagine Chauvelin would rely entirely on your friend there." When Desgas glanced in their direction Hastings shifted his gaze to a vision in lavender to the man's right. Hastings could feel the man's hate filled eyes upon them as Hastings studied the soft curve of the lady's cheekbone. Two sparkling eyes met his, a smile, and he was hooked. Chauvelin's flunky stalked away, while the young lady flirtatiously played peek-a-boo with her fan. He would have to become better acquainted with the lady when business was settled.

He smiled at her as he continued through clenched teeth. "We must inform the chief what we know. If it is a matter of treachery then Chauvelin would already know the chief's identity. I don't think this is the case, because it would be more useful to let Armand continue on with the league... he could easily pass messages to Chauvelin when he reached England . That means if it is not treachery then Armand is in danger, Chauvelin would know that an abrupt disappearance would be noticed... so something must have happened so that Chauvelin felt that he had to act with haste. Which means whatever is going to happen is going to happen soon... either way we must let Percy know and he can determine the next course of action." He had a hunch that the path to finding Armand lay on the other side of the Channel. He winked at the young lady causing her to blush modestly.

"We should split up and search," Hastings whispered as he turned away. "Let the chief determine the time and place of our next meeting."

Oh this one was ripe for the picking! Those come-thither eyes, the smile she flashed as she flipped her... she was dripping with desire and she chose him. He gave her his most winning smile and she in turn indicated a corner with her eyes before slipping off into that private space. Dewhurst rolled his eyes and muttered some comment under his breath which Hastings chose to ignore. Who was he to turn the lady down? He would be mad to ignore so open and obvious an invitation. It had been too long for his tastes since such an opportunity presented itself, in young Miss Dunstable, and France was no place to pick up whores these days where the pox ran rampant. This, this was his reward for his tireless service. Hastings followed her at a casual pace, wondering how far they might venture in that convenient nook - if she was the noisy type it might be better to slip upstairs.

She was sitting demurely, blushing as he came upon her - hands nervously playing with her fan. "Mademoiselle, I fear we have not had the pleasure of being introduced. I am Lord Edward Hastings III..." She giggled and offered her hand, which he took gently and pressed to his lips.

MacKensie watched as his friend wandered off to follow the lovely young thing that had been playing peek-a-boo with him. Some blokes had all the luck. He rolled his eyes and turned back to Tony, completely amused. "Why is it, do you suppose, that it is only the unsightly chaps like Hastings who have all the luck with the girls?" He laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "While the rest of us -- dashing gentlemen, if I do say so myself -- end up with the old widowed matrons and fat, daft, giggling brats that cannot be stood even around their own mums." He winked at Dewhurst, nodding towards a particularly round, robust creature of the fair sex that was eyeing him up and down as if he were a treat to be devoured. Unfortunately this one could hardly be included in the category of 'fair'. "There's a live one for you, ol' boy." He grinned, making eyes with the plump beast. Oh, repulsive. Even he, who as shy as he was always loved the sport of chase, could not handle this one. "You've got about ten seconds to decide, chap. Stay here and become the first name on the dance card of Mademoiselle la Grosse B�te or come and play a bit of Hazard with me -- I'm feeling devilshly lucky, I fear. That, or I am sure we could find a bit of sport upstairs. With a handsome chap like me at your side you are sure to manage at least a few of my cast offs. Free of charge."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two dances later, Ffoulkes had abandoned Miss Dunstable to her next partner and vanished from the ballroom seeking less energy-draining pleasures. He'd found the library, perused a few rows of titles - looked like Lord Shipwash had been keen on the Romans - then he'd pushed open the doors and gone to walk in the garden. Cool air. The sky was so black that every star in heaven was glowing down on him and the grass was wet. If the temperature dropped any more there would be frost - not good for amorous couples who usually loved to squirrel away in darkened corners. Perhaps that explained why the garden was so quiet - it was too cold for any action that demanded the removal of clothing.

Andrew, horny and anxious, gravitated toward the sound of water playing in a fountain. He could seduce Miss Dunstable - he sensed her willingness - but instead he'd left her unkissed. The only woman he wanted he could not - dared not - approach. Of all the women he saw, he only wanted Suzanne. Had the count found a safe lodging for his family? Did he have money enough to see to their comfort? How much longer would it take before his letter to Lady Grenville would bear fruit and Mademoiselle du Tournai would be seen among polite society? Andrew wished there was some polite way for him to approach the man and ask if he needed any assistance. Some way to offer him money. He dared not. A man such as the Count du Tournai would not welcome the likes of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Baronet, acting presumptuous. The best he could do was to approach the countess and ask to take 'Miss Susan' walking. Show her a tea shop. Buy her a hot drink and a sticky bun. All this would be conducted under the watchful gaze of some dumpy, badly dressed chaperone. Probably wearing a hat with a wilted daisy in the brim. She would want to turn every questionable conversation about poetry or nature straight back to 'Christian Thoughts', as if Sir Andrew's thoughts were not all of the most honest, Christian, procreating kind.

God, if he didn't find a beddable wench, he was likely to explode into a thousand bits! He returned to the glittering room where the music swirled in his head and any remaining space was taken up by the press of bodies and the hum of their chatter. Glasses clinked. Laughter shattered his thoughts. Everywhere he stood he breathed in the scent of warmth and perfume. Heated velvet, steaming brocade. Feathers shifting languidly. God, he was so horny, even Lady Shipwash was a temptation. Everywhere he looked his eyes collided with naked arms, powdered necks, and bosoms that rose and fell with every breath.

"He's quite brilliant, you must see . . ." One patronizing voice after another filled his head until he was overcome. He was drowning in perfume - rose, jasmine, lily. Flavoured by brandy. A discordant wail of flutes set his teeth on edge. "Of course you know him, my dear. . ." It all felt like too much.

The Shipwash mansion was typical of early 18th century homes: over-sized, high-ceilinged rooms laid out in sequence along seemingly endless corridors. With a party in full swing, there was not a quiet corner to be found. Andrew wandered listlessly, attempting to find some pursuit that would capture his interest. In a green parlour some young people were playing a rhyming game - too much work involved. In the billiard room an argument had broken out over a missed shot - no point in interfering there. Poking his head into the card room Andrew knew at once this was where he would find some excitement. The five men sitting at the centre table were laughing and drinking - a perfect situation for a serious hazard player. Drink spoiled a man's judgement and hazard was all about risk.

"Twenty pounds to the man who will surrender his chair to me," he said by way of introduction and the man across the table stood up. "And yer welcome to it." As Andrew circled the table he saw in addition to a pile of coins that a few bank notes had collected in the centre of the table as well as a very nice looking ring. He picked it up to get a better look. "Carnelian?" Andrew asked.

"Bloodstone," the man next to him said.

"Yours?"

"Was."

"Are the notes yours, too?"

"No," another man said. "That's the end of Lord Greavey's fortune - whose seat you've taken over. Last night he lost Swan's Rest to Saint-Luc here, and tonight he surrendered his coach and greys."

"I'm afraid I have not so ripe pickings as all that," Andrew said as he tossed a guinea on the table and picked up his cards.

The man called Saint-Luc had clear brown eyes, unclouded by liquor. He shuffled the cards neatly, methodically. "Your toss, Duncannon," Saint Luc said, tossing the dice across the table.

Perhaps it was the heat of the room or the near panic she felt that made Marguerite feel faint. The stays felt too tight to breath. Focus on the task at hand. Remain calm and smile. Try to ignore Mrs. Davis who tread on her heels if she stopped too abruptly. If she needed to find someone at a gathering like this, it was best to determine where they were most likely to be. If Suzanne were here she would likely be with her mother, unless her mother had become less controlling since Marguerite left France . She wanted to speak with Suzanne away from the Comtesse. Now Andrew was most likely to be found among the dancers, if he were to be found at all. He was the type to be more than willing to pull or be pulled away to some isolated spot where Marguerite didn't care to follow.

It had been a shock to think that Andrew might be the Scarlet Pimpernel. Thank goodness Percy wasn't the type to risk his life so foolishly - however Andrew might. The more she thought about it the more sense it made, and yet if he were how could she bring herself to betray him? He had always treated her so kindly when most gossiped behind her back. He was, despite his habits, a good man and if he were the Scarlet Pimpernel - than he was a better man she knew. But Armand was a good man too. It would be his blood, along Saint-Cyr's, which stained her hand. Absentmindedly she fumbled out a white silk handkerchief and wiped her hands - as if that would cleanse them!

There had to be some way to save her brother without costing the life of another� When had life become so cheap a thing as to be bartered one for another? Marguerite�s train of thought was derailed by a glimpse of familiar fair hair. Her heart skipped a beat in recognition � Andrew. Was it some sort of sign that he stumbled across her path at that moment? It had to be a sign, she tried to convince herself.

She studied his purposeful stride and mannerisms as she trailed him, imagining such an individual walking the dangerous streets of Paris where the majority of the population who gladly see him hunted and hung. He carried himself like a man always prepared for a fight, naturally with the work he did� No. She was convincing herself that he was the Scarlet Pimpernel when it was possible that any number of men might be equally if not more likely. It was unfair to assume he was when such an assumption might cost him his life.

Sir Andrew paused near the dance floor, watching the dancers. Was he contemplating another rescue? Marguerite edged her way around a group of giggling girls to creep up on Sir Andrew. Marguerite lay a hand upon his forearm to gain his attention, �Ah, forgive me for startling you, Sir Andrew,� Marguerite pulled her hand away as Andrew jerked his head around. �I was merely overjoyed to see a familiar face in a sea of strangers.�

Tony hadn't been listening... he'd heard barely a word. His eyes were, not so subtly, were glued to Desgas. Tony would have known him anywhere. He seemed insignificant in the realm of the Revolution. A mere mongrel to be order about by Chauvelin. Perhaps Robespierre didn't even know his name, but Tony quickly refrained from speculating as he watched the Frenchies prattle on in that infernal language of theirs. Yes, Tony spoke fluent French, but there was nothing he hated more than to hear a members of the committee embracing those words with their razor-blade tongues, sacrificing the beauty of their language, much like their country, and all for blood.

"There's a live one for you, ol' boy." Tony turned back to MacKensie, then followed the direction his head tilted where he beheld a grotesque sampling of the feminine form... made feminine only by the stay she wore that was obviously sizes too small for her.

"Well, if I ever fall from a building, I'll call her over so that I might make soft landing." His eyes twinkled with intensity as he turned back to monitor Desgas every half-minute.

"You've got about ten seconds to decide, chap..." Tony faded out again. Nothing was happening that might make him suspicious of the Frenchmen other than the fact that they were present and Tony could smell blood. "...With a handsome chap like me at your side," MacKensie faded back in, "you are sure to manage at least a few of my cast offs. Free of charge."

Tony cleared his throat, smiling a smug smile at his friend. "I'm certain that anything you might cast off and that I might acquire free of charge, would be a rip-off!" He laughed and leaned in closer to his friend. "What do you suppose Desgas is up to? Doing Chauvelin's bidding no doubt. I hope the chief is smart enough not to communicate with any of us here tonight."

This was the happiest moment of Andrew's life since he'd left darling Suzanne in the hands of her father, the count. If there was any woman on earth who could help him forget Mademoiselle Suzanne it was Lady Blakeney. By far she was the more enigmatic woman, but equally, she was the more unreachable. Well, not completely unreachable, Andrew said to himself. There were ways of impressing a married woman into indiscretion. God knew, he'd won a few of those encounters in the past, but "p-a-s-t" was the operative word, spelled full-out in capitals for Andrew was a man marked for marriage in his own mind. Marked and taken. Set aside. He could picture the little du Tournai's sweet face in his mind and he yearned for the feminine curves he remembered of her body. Oh yes: that was a woman he yearned to know.

"Am I mistaken?" he asked glibly, "or is that milord Bathurst with the most intriguing woman?" he asked Lady Blakeney who seemed to squint a little as she tried to bring the face into focus.

He was really rather charming, Marguerite thought, as she looked up into Sir Andrew's face and wondered. He would have to be in order to gain the compliance our those he saved, considered the odds stacked against them... Marguerite stopped herself. She was reading too much into every trait she could observe of Andrew and convincing herself that he was the Scarlet Pimpernel. She was practically certain of it in the short time that she had been in his company. Each time their eyes met she wanted to ask him, "Are you the one? Are you the Scarlet Pimpernel?" But then there lay the problem. If it were Andrew Ffoulkes, how could she offer him up to the sacrificial alter? He helped so many and he was Percy's dearest friend and one of the few people in England who treated her with compassion. But then these were argument she had gone over a hundred times in her head without know for certain that he was the man. What if he was not? Chauvelin seemed convinced that Andrew had some connection to the Pimpernel. Whatever the case, it involved betraying a good man by either aiding in his capture or in tricking him into betraying the identity of the man who was.

"I have been hearing all manner of gossip about you this evening, Sir Andrew," she stated, as she rejoined him at the head of the queue. "I'm told you've been missing for over a month. I pray it was business that claimed you and not some dreadful malady." Trying to keep the conversation light. "You can see how relieved I am to find you here in good health." This won her a smile.

"Am I mistaken or is that milord Bathurst with the most intriguing woman?" he pointed to a pair shuffling into view. Lord Bathurst was distinctive, as was his dislike of her, but the woman was wholly unfamiliar. Not English by the look of her - nor French though she might pass for one � she was a Spaniard Marguerite was certain who appeared to be down on her luck, if her out-dated dress was any indication. But for a moment, Marguerite had the impression she was looking at something predatory, but she dismissed it as fancy. "It would appear to be. But I don't recall ever seeing her before," Marguerite remarked. "Though they appear to be interested in meeting us."

Interested in meeting us - yes, they were. Bathurst was waving but Ffoulkes couldn't tell whether he expected them to hold steady while he manouvered his way towards them, or if he was motioning them forward towards himself. "Typical," he muttered. " Bathurst is the most inept fool I've ever had the pleasure to know." Grinning down at Margot he added, "The only reason anyone keeps him as a friend is because he's such a gracious loser at Hazard. In the last two years he's paid the rent on my rooms with his consistent losses. Of course, he discounts all those games, remembering - and shouting about - the horse he won from me last summer. The only wager he's won from me, but that's all he remembers."

Andrew twirled Marguerite back into the dance hoping to bow out when they got across the room where Bathurst and the woman were standing. That woman - stunningly beautiful - who could she be? Definitely not one he'd seen before . . . or was it? Something tugged in his brain, some piece of a puzzle, but as he concentrated on the complicated measures of the dance, he didn't have time to dwell on the possibility that he'd met Bathurst 's woman before. He'd know soon enough.

MacKensie glanced at Desgas, briefly meeting the man's eyes before turning away. "It seems his attention has been on Lady Blakeney," he whispered, once again following Tony's gaze to the Frenchman. But he was no longer looking at them. His attention was once again on that little caitiff of an Ambassador beside him. The two men spoke a few minutes more -- it was a shame, MacKensie thought, that they were too far away to hear what transpired between the two Frenchmen. It would surely have been an enlightening conversation on what the bastards were planning to do in England.

But it was no matter. They would never be caught-out. Blakeney was too careful. They were all too careful.

"Chauvelin has sent him off..." He waited a moment while Desgas walked twenty or so paces towards one of the halls that led to the gardens. "Lets follow him!" He grabbed his comrade's arm, jerking him forward, worried that they would lose the Frenchie.

But Chauvelin's henchman was such a fool! Walking so slowly and wearing all black to an English party -- one would have thought he *wanted* to be followed...to stick out like a sore thumb. MacKensie mentioned as much to Tony, laughing at the foolishness of it all. "Demmed foreigners -- always a step behind us fellows, eh wot? I almost pity them."

Face to face, Andrew knew the woman at once. Hair up or down, he remembered those eyes. Funny, he remembered women by their hair - the distinct shade of chestnut lightened with auburn that pointed out Sarah Dunstable was unique and had made her seem pretty to him. Likewise, the distinctive sandy blonde that was Suzanne du Tournai . . . he'd never seen hair like that before. This was the marquise de . . . what? Fontenoy - yes, he grinned as Bathurst said the name and he recalled it.

"Good evening, marquise," Andrew said, bowing over her hand and kissing it with a mere brush of dry lips across her knuckles, then he stilled. Eyes raised to hers in question. Quickly he glanced away, saying, "I trust you will enjoy your visit to England ," in an effort to cover the electric feeling that had pulsed through his body from their joined fingers. The little minx had squeezed his hand. Recognised him. Andrew's heart had gone into a skipping rhythm that had nothing to do with the allure of the marquise's wonderful eyes and everything about the way she'd recognised him from Dover. How was he going to explain away that little coincidence? He'd have to come up with something - madame's smile was warm and welcoming and he knew what that meant. He felt it in his spine and his knees. His scalp tingled and he found himself grinning like a fool. If he asked her to dance...

Lady Blakeney was saying something, but Andrew couldn't take in the words. He felt dark Spanish eyes burning him. Measuring him. He understood that look, felt it heating his belly. Her eyes were trailing up and down him in frank appraisal, her lips pouting a little as she took him in and considered his potential. He measured up - he knew he did.

The harpsichord began Bach . . . Andrew's favourite suite. He could see the music in his mind, felt his fingers on the keys. His palms itched as he remembered the marquise's round breasts, amber globes revealed by wet cotton. Plum peaks. "Do you dance the allemand, Lady Fontenoy?" he asked, offering her his hand. His mouth had gone dry and his feet were lighter than air.

"We'll have to get closer to him if we plan on actually getting any information." Tony muttered, his lips barely moving as his eyes followed after the quickly departing Chauvelin. Something was definitely a-foot, but what? "I honestly don't think he even knows any of us British blokes are here! It looks as if they're conducting business as though this were the Place de la Greve." His volume suddenly increased, as the aristocratic facade as he looked down at acKensie's shoes. "You see here dear fellow? I had those buckles on my last pair of shoes, and they were from that particular... uh... footwear charletan and I can tell you that they promptly broke whilst I was dancing a jig with a fine young lady, causing me to fall and nearly take half the dance floor with me! Skirts flew and for once that was not an enjoyable experience for me dear boy! The very next day I went down there and complained, but the man didn't even have the decency to return my money! I felt an absolute fool Mackensie." His eyes fell, once again, on Desgas. "An absolute fool I tell you!"

It would have been impolite to refuse, not that Sir Andrew had given her the option. At least it was a fairly spritely dance, with its complex promenades and twirls. She glanced once at Bathurst , but he was in conversation with someone else so she turned her attention back to her current partner. She certainly did recognise him from the Fisherman's Rest, although she had not known who he was at the time. To think she'd been so close upon her very arrival in England ! She had squeezed his hand gently when he took it and been surprised at how quickly he had interpreted the sign. Ffoulkes definitely was forward, she thought, arrogantly so... but then Chauvelin always maintained that the Pimpernel was arrogant. Was Sir Andrew the Pimpernel?

Vaguely she wondered whether he would expect her to sleep with him? She didn't much care if he did. Her eyes might burn fire, but her veins were like ice at the thought. Pimpernel or not, to Teresia Cabarrus he was just another man with the same weakness as the rest of them. For a split second she thought of Blakeney... why did she not feel the same way about him? What did she feel? Was it just physical attraction or something more? Teresia didn't believe in love... it couldn't possibly be that! To clear her head, break the silence with Ffoulkes and make best use of her time she reminded him of their previous acquaintance. "I'm sorry if I startled you when last we met." she said lightly, "I must have looked an awful state... not that I look much better now!" she gave a merry laugh and waited to see how he would respond.

Bathurst was scowling at Andrew, as the other man swept off with his woman, Marguerite observed. My Lord Bathurst was clearly very fond of the Spaniard - poor woman. She thought to speak to him to help while away the time until his precious possession returned to him, but he was pointedly avoiding looking in her direction. Have it his way.

The more pressing question surfaced: was Sir Andrew the Scarlet Pimpernel and if he were could she bring herself to betray him? It would be easy to think that she didn't have to, that her flight would be successful and that her old friends would agree to intervene on Armand's behalf, but so many things were uncertain. She had yet to see Suzanne, if she was even present, and it was most likely that if she went to Paris she would share Armand's fate. It would be easier to barter with some credit under her belt... if she could convince herself to acquire it. She watched the dancers, wish she could be anyone of them, wishing she could have someone else's life that was more bearable - family not under the knife, if not a husband that cared then the strength to endure it - problems that seemed less impossible.

Bathurst drew her attention with a sharp intake of air, his large frame eclipsing the man who drew his attention save for a fine white hand which rested on his shoulder. If my Lord Bathurst had been the Pimpernel (his name was on the list Chauvelin gave her) the choice might have been easier - might... It was still murder. Besides it was laughable to imagine that Bathurst could be so brave and compassionate an individual. When next she looked in his direction, he was staring at something in his cupped hand, which he hastily thrust into his pocket went their eyes met.

"The Marquise is very charming," she said, to fill the uncomfortable silence between them. "I can see why you are so fond of her." Bathurst 's cheeks colored, but Marguerite couldn't tell whether it was from embarrassment or anger. "I would guess a Spaniard who had married a French nobleman, given her features and name... has she only recently arrived?" Surely talk of the marquise would lighten his sour disposition.

"Lud, sir, that would simply be because you are an absolute fool , Dewhurst. Confusing my Harleson-made fine silver buckles with some -- some ordinary," the word came out in complete disgust, "uh -- footwear...charletan." He only hoped that was the right term -- the one Dewhurst had used. His valet took care of all of his footwear. He did not give a damn whether he wore Harleson or Hamberton or Benoit, so long as he could ride in whatever fit him best. "Besides," he drawled indignantly, still staring down at his buckles, "probably t'wasn't the demmed buckles but your two left feet that caused the mess in the first place."

He glanced furtively towards the hall Desgas was crossing towards. He now appeared to be a man on a mission and had picked up his pace.

"Come, Tony," MacKensie said quietly, flicking his eyes again to the Frenchman, "we had better go or we will lose him. He seems to be on to something."

The two men wandered off after the Frenchman, trying to appear as casual as possible, so as not to bring notice to themselves. Bathurst and Fanshaw were in the ballroom, along with Lady Blakeney and Ffoulkes. The Marquise was at the moment dancing with the Scot.

Blakeney was no where to be seen.

MacKensie stepped into the hall just in time to see Desgas turn a corner.

Where was Chauvelin? Why this hall?

"He must be on to someone -- where is Blakeney?" MacKensie whispered, stopping briefly in the threshold.

Chauvelin glanced at my Lord Bathurst and his associate... Fanshaw, a man he knew worked closely with Grenville. Even if the note had nothing to do with his target, any information passed between those two individuals was likely to be of value. He looked for Cabarrus - she was bound to stick close to her escourt - and found her sailing across the dance floor in the arms of... Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Chauvelin grinned. The little minx had homed in on the prize.

He glanced back at Bathurst . Fanshaw had gone and now the man was engrossed in conversation with none other than the exquisite Lady Blakeney. Following orders. She had sought out her targets quickly - it would be interesting to see which of his spies pinned his target first. "Perhaps the Spaniard should be put to work?" Berthier mumbled.

"No," Chauvelin disagreed. "Give the information to Lady Blakeney. Tell her I want to know what that note says. If I'm not mistaken he will attempt to give it to Ffoulkes..." Chauvelin took a champagne glass from the tray. "Make sure she knows that she must get that note."

"Devil take me, you will!" Said MacKensie, briefly forgetting about their mission. "T'was me the lass was making eyes with! Y'ad hardly know what to do with her!" Such a sentence was only comical because it was quite the other way around, and both men knew it. MacKensie was too shy to even consider making eyes with a girl he had never met. All talk -- no results. Occassionally, if he'd had enough punch poured down his throat -- or if he was accompanied by a half dozen of his comrades...security in numbers, no? But on his own? Gods, no!

The sound of a door opening down the hall drew him out of his train of thought.

"Ah, the library!"

When they got there the door was left only ajar and a sliver of light bled into the otherwise shadowed hallway.

MacKensie held a finger to his lips. Someone was talking from inside. A foreign voice. "Desgas." He mouthed the word.

Desgas had taken a dozen steps inside the Shipwash library and immediately assessed it for vacant. Fortunate, on a night when so many would be seeking out quieter nooks for more pleasing actvities. A sadistic smile spread across his dark face. For all the pain the two English dandies took in the hall he could still hear the near silent clip-clop of their infernal shoes. They had followed him straight into a trap. Just as he knew they would. The same two who had been eyeing him all night. He could report back to Chauvelin that they, indeed, were in league with that hellion. All the better -- all the closer... and then there was, of course, still the du Tournai to deal with. The smile broadened.

The floor creaked in the hall.

Such fools.

An idea came to him.

"Mercier!" He said in a rather loud whisper, speaking only to one of the portraits of a portly woman that hung above the fireplace. He waited ample time for a reply to have been given and then continued in French, "we must be on the move to-night! We have got him for sure! Right down to the hide-away in Calais . Soon the identity of the man will be all over Paris . The men will be trailing his every move -- the moment he steps onto French soil--" He stopped abruptly, as if he had heard something. "Hush! The door!" He said, still staring at the portrait, wondering just what the two fools outside would do. If they took the bait...if they brought the outcome of the conversation they had 'eavesdropped' on to their Leader... If he did not lose sight of them and marked every man they crossed -- one would be the Pimpernel! If he alerted Chauvelin of the men's desire to reach their so-called Chief...

Berthier's eyes were discreetly pinned to the lovely image of Lady Blakeney. He knew her face well. From Paris. And from France . He had had the pleasure of marking her every step these last few days that he had arrived. It was something he found most enjoyable. And now, to see the woman squirm under his own command -- no work, all pleasure.

"Make sure she knows that she must get that note," Chauvelin was saying.

Berthier lowered his clean shaven face in acknowledgement. His time in England had been quite pleasant, actually. Clean clothes, clean bed, fresh food. It was not like that at home. "At once, citoyen," he murmured, again wandering off with his tray of champagne. He glanced at the bubbling liquid in the tall glasses. He wouldn't have minded a sip for himself -- but alas! his thoughts were wandering and he had business to attend to.

He had seen his superior, Desgas, stalk off into one of the large manor halls with the two Englishmen -- Dewhurst and MacKensie -- tailing him. He would get no help from the ill-tempered brute. Better to find Jacques or Rouget...

Briefly assessing the situation from an alcove in the hall, Rouget turned his dark eyes to Berthier, who had just hurriedly explained what needed to happen.

"It will do," he said, slightly unsatisfied about his roll in the ordeal. If anything happened, it was his scrawny neck that would take the blame -- Berthier had set it up to fall like that, the bastard!

The two French spies moved off separately across the ballroom, carrying their respective trays of champagne and cheese.

Berthier heard this last exchange as he sidled up to Lady Blakeney through a throng of guests, exasperated when a dandy stopped him to take a glass of the fine champagne. He was within a few feet of his target, however, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Rouget falling into place almost directly in front of Bathurst , who was already in a terrible temper. Berthier felt a brief moment of sympathy for his comrade - it would not go well for him - but a brief moment was all he could spare. If Rouget had more brains he could have delogated who did what -- a pity for him.

Berthier had separated himself from the dandy and was now closing in on Marguerite, his eyes pinned to the floor respectively.

A small cry of alarm went up and Berthier knew his companion had set things into action.

He looked up just in time to see the small French spy trip over his own feet, dressed in the shoes that fit the livery of the Shipwash Manor, and, calculating his fall, land directly in Bathurst 's unsuspecting arms, the plate of cheese smashed into the broad English chest.

"My lord!" Said Rouget, and Berthier's heart skipped in gratefulness that his companion remembered the English words and did not stutter off in French, "my apologies, my lord!" He continued to stutter the English phrases, but Berthier no longer listened. All around them eyes had been turned to the incident, and no one -- but Chauvelin across the room, no doubt -- was paying the lovely Lady Blakeney any attention.

Berthier stepped between her and Bathurst, who was likely about to order a sound flogging for clumsy Rouget.

He met the lady's eyes -- odd, for a servant, and held her gaze.

"Mademoiselle Saint-Just," he said, spitting the words at her, "there is a slip of paper in Bathurst 's pocket - likely it will go to Ffoulkes. You must know the contents!" He finished in French, and then calmly walked away, out of the brief chaotic mess, to find Chauvelin and report his duty done.

<Percy>

It was like walking into a wall of noise when Percy returned to the house. He moved quickly toward the diningroom - his first choice of location for finding Henshaw. Music and chatter mingled with raucous laughter and the clatter of silver on china. Sure enough, Henshaw as propping up a wall as he methodically emptied a plate. Their eyes met across the room and Henshaw stiffened to attention. Abandoned his plate. Came at a pace that suggested moderate concern.

"Have you watched Lady Blakeney as I commanded?"

"Certainly," Henshaw replied, raising his eyebrows and motioning toward the open doors leading onto the terrace.

"She cut through the garden to the ballroom. Been dancing with Sir Andrew. I've only left her for 2-3 minutes."

Percy nodded and took this speedy route across the lawn to the ballroom. He thought of his rush-away trip to France and wished he might tell her he was leaving her here. He should beg her to be careful, especially of Chauvelin - "Why not string yourself up with your own cravat?" he muttered as he tripped up the steps toward the ballroom. Bach. The music reminded him of Andrew who played that suite tolerably well, save his habit of humming along.

As soon as he entered the ballroom his eyes found Marguerite - a vision in ice blue, her wide skirts swirling as she and Andrew skipped the measure. She was by far the loveliest woman in all England , in his opinion. Andrew focused all his attention on her as if he felt the same way and for a moment Percy's guts tightened. There was nothing he could do save trust that Margot would give her love discriminately. He'd already played the jealous husband and what had that scene bought him? Contempt. Lies. He knew she was unfaithful, but she denied it. She had no idea how much it hurt him that she could love others while he...

If only there was some way to erase the rift between them! There was none. He had tried. Tried and tried. Their lives were divided by misunderstandings and fear. Outright lies and deception. How could they ever come together? Percy shrugged, sensing that they were growing further and further apart.

When he returned Armand to her, perhaps then she would sit down with him and they might try to heal the rift. If he dared trust her.

He wished she would love only him, as he loved only her. It was too much to ask. Perhaps the whole thing would hurt less if he took a lover, too. He nearly laughed aloud at that. Who could he find that was as diverting as Marguerite? Who would appeal to him after her perfection? It would be like swallowing French gruel after weeks of filling English fare, but it could be done. Hunger was hunger after all.

Not waiting for Desgas and his companion to exit the library, MacKensie grabbed Tony's arm and pulled him down the hallway towards the ballroom. "Zounds!" He said, quietly, as the pair drew closer to the din of the ballroom and the heat of the dancing couples. The last strains of a number by Bach caught his ear.

"This means trouble," he said to Tony, referring to Desgas' earlier conversation. "We must find the chief."

On the word chief, Percy ironically entered the ballroom, directly in sight of the two jolly fools. Without a word, MacKensie discreetly nodded towards Blakeney, and then began a slow, measured step across the hall and around the clusters of chatting men and women who had just stepped off the dance floor. His outward composure displayed nothing of the inner turmoil he felt.

Off to the side, not far from his chief, a small crowd had gathered and several of the guests were tittering in amusement. Through it all MacKensie could just make out the broad stature of John Bathurst, who apparently had just had a run-in with one of the Shipwash servants. His curiousity would have to wait, however -- it was Blakeney he must see first.

"Hallo, chap!" He said quite merrily, approaching the tall, stunningly attired form of Sir Percy Blakeney.

He clapped the man on the shoulder. "What ho, ol' boy, but I have the most interesting gossip to share with you -- Lady Clavand is involved...absolutely shocking, I say!" though he prayed his glance would say much more than that. It was a private interview he desired -- and one before that vermin of a Frenchman returned from the library with his treacherous friend in tow. Mackensie motioned towards Dewhurst. "We have just heard it from the horse's mouth!"

It all happened so fast that Marguerite was unaware of what had happened until the platter slammed into Lord Bathurst's chest, and only just in time to dodge the contents that spilled off onto the floor. Just as quickly, Bathurst shoved the footman away from him, causing the platter to clatter to the floor sending its contents in all directions. Marguerite narrowly sidestepping flying bits of cheese. The experience might have been amusing � after all Bathurst was a well-deserving recipient � if not for the fact that Bathurst would likely kill the man as a result.

She thought to intercede on the poor man�s behalf when another of Shipwash�s servants stepped between her and Lord Bathurst, Marguerite tried side stepping this one when he moved with her. What was this? "Mademoiselle Saint-Just, there is a slip of paper in Bathurst 's pocket� you must know the contents!" in flawless French. She stared at him questioningly, however once the message was delivered the footman sailed away. She watched him go, following him with her eyes, then looked passed him� in the corridor looking in on the ballroom stood the somber French ambassador � smirking. Chauvelin wasn�t going to give her a chance to skirt around her duty. Do it or else his eyes told her.

She turned back to Lord Bathurst and his victim � it was a set-up. The man�s fear was real as Bathurst took a couple of swipes at the little man. She suddenly felt less sorry for him� However, it would help no one for Bathurst to pound the little spy. Bravely she stepped forward and laid a restraining hand on his arm � she could feel the muscle bulging dangerously beneath the coat, �My Lord Bathurst, it was an accident. The damage is easily repaired.� Bathurst whirled on her and for a moment she thought he might strike, but did not. Marguerite fished a handkerchief from her reticule, and brushed bits of cheese off his coat. �I�m certain Lady Shipwash will properly chastised him.�

His only warning was the flash of candlelight off the silver of the tray as the platter hurled forward with the momentum of its carrier, both breaking their fall aside Bathurst, who staggered from the collision. The valet clung to him, slipping on the food stuff that had not clung to his coat. Oh the humiliation! The utter humiliation! The giggles at his expense. Like a flash of lightening, Bathurst �s hand shot out , shoving the little footman aside. The little man squeaked as Bathurst seized his collar. �Fool! What do you think you �re doing?! Look at what you�ve done!� Bathurst gave him a rough jerk. �Maybe a sound trashin� would make you more careful in the future.� He took a step forward, kicking the fallen platter along the marble floor. The little footman mumbled something about slipping as he tried pulling away.

It was the gentlest of touches, yet the will behind it was powerfully commanding, enough so to loosen his grip on his potential victim. �My Lord Bathurst, it was an accident.� The moment she spoke he knew who had intervened � meddling, treacherous bitch! He turned on her for explanation. .�I�m certain Lady Shipwash will properly chastised him.� As she spoke she dabbed at pieces of cheese that clung to his coat. Bathurst swatted her hands away. �Do you intend to embarrass me any further, madam?� he leaned in close and hissed under his breath. �I don�t intend mine to be another reputation you�ve ruined.� Lady Blakeney took a step back, her eyes flashing angrily. No wonder Percy was reluctant to stay home for long with that little viper.

She was the most incredible woman he'd ever discovered, Andrew decided. Too stunning to be real, her winsome beauty was compounded by a shocking sexuality. Andrew's experience of women was confined to virgins and harlots, to find a woman who may not be either, or who could be both set his teeth on edge. How did one proceed? Virgins - well, he had one; no need to follow that road. As for harlots - he was off harlots these days. Taking a full-length sabbatical from all harlots both old and new. He was working towards the idea of celibacy. Considering actual wedlock. Imagining what it would be like to go without sex for maybe four days in a row. Perhaps a week. Would anyone last for ten full days without a little. . . . ?? It was the cold reality of love, he'd decided. He must wait for Suzanne to turn up in society. To be courted. (Oh, the courtship ritual. How to escalate that??) There would be long afternoons ensconced in the parlour with papa pretending to read the latest broadsheets while mama plied him with leading questions and Suzanne wrung her hands and blushed. He would be forced to drink cup after cup of lukewarm tea and try not to undress the child with his eyes when all he wanted to teach her how to kiss him as a woman would - as a lover would.

'"I'm sorry if I startled you when last we met." Teresia said lightly, "I must have looked an awful state... not that I look much better now!"'

The rich, contralto tone of her voice, lyrical Spanish moulding the vowels, brought Andrew fully back to the moment. The moment was now. The room was sweltering for all it was November and he was sweating inside his coat. God, he was horny enough to die. To turn satyr and ravish this divine creature without a word of either warning or permission. Her delicate hand was hot in his bear-like palm. Her eyes were lighting a fire inside his belly. How could he remain faithful to pretty, demure Suzanne when women like Teresia, Lady Cabarrus, set fire to him?

"Would you like a glass of champagne?" he asked as the music stopped. God, it was the end; he was so tangled in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed the last stanza wind to a close. "Perhaps there is somewhere where we might sit and talk a moment."

She should turn her nose up at him and leave, but what rested in his pocket compelled her to over look his slights. She had to see that note whether she did so through Bathurst or Andrew and the only way was for her to remain close to it, thus having to suffer my Lord Bathurst noxious presence. She would just have to wait out the set and wait for the exchange. Bathurst was already ordering another footman to see to it that the clumsy one was deal with, making a spectacle of himself. As he puffed and fumed, the music came to a stop and Ffoulkes took his little dance partner by the arm and headed away from them � an action Bathurst clearly noticed for his complaints stopped abruptly as he stared after them. The little Spanish hoyden hadn�t hurried back to him as Bathurst expected and he looked far from pleased by the prospect. Knuckles white, a muscle in his jaw tensing, eyes burning with anger� at this rate he was more likely to kill Sir Andrew than deliver a note. Now she could see the true in everything she�d heard of Lord Bathurst. Andrew had said it was damned difficult to befriend the temperament young lord. And there were many rumours of his jealous and possessive nature. �Just flutter your eyes and him and he�d think you were already engaged,� so she�d heard Sarah Dunstable say.

Swallowing her pride, Marguerite signaled Mrs. Davis, who as ever was hovering nearby, to followed and step forward to Bathurst �s side, slipping her arm through his. �Come, my Lord Bathurst, let�s do something about that coat of yours.� He glared down at her and she met his gaze unflinching, lowering her voice before saying, �This outburst is doing nothing for your reputation neither would assaulting Sir Andrew. However there is little damage I can do with my maid in tow. Now let us retire elsewhere to repair your attire and calm your temper before reuniting you with your charming little guest.�

That damned Ffoulkes! Bathurst thought as he watched Ffoulkes pull Teresia away, the clumsy valet now forgotten. A glimpse at a perfect pair of breasts and all he could think of was to bed the wench � and she would be defenseless! After the glowing praise he made of the lecherous Scot, she wouldn�t be prepared to fend off his advances. If Ffoulkes compromised her in any way�

Bathurst was just lurching forward in pursuit when Lady Blakeney latched onto him with surprising strength. For a moment he wondered how offended Blakeney would be if he slapped some respect into her. �This outburst is doing nothing for your reputation�� she hissed through a plastic smile, Bathurst looked around at those watching and whispering. ��now let us retire elsewhere to repair your attire and calm your temper before reuniting you with your charming little guest.� Over Marguerite�s shoulder he could see the plain-faced, old maid. Begrudgingly he gave in to her suggestion, if only to flee the censorious looks of the throng.

�You are most gracious, Lady Blakeney,� he confessed through gritted teeth.

Berthier waited for Chauvelin to disappear around the corner before following him. He knew the rules. After a few minutes the portly Frenchman followed after the Ambassador, certain that no one was watching. It was all he could do to keep himself from grinning. Everything had gone so well! And it had all been of his own design. The note would be read, Chauvelin would be pleased, the Pimpernel would be discovered, Rouget may even live, and best of all -- the look in that French bitch's eyes -- horror, outrage, hatred and best of all, helplessness. She had no choice but to do Chauvelin's bidding - and he, Citoyen Arnaud Berthier, was in part responsible for her situation! Indeed, as soon as he got around the corner and Chauvelin was in sight, he did allow a small smile. The hall was deserted, no one would see�

A hard, precise and acutely painful blow was administered the stout spy's temple, causing him to fall back, staggering to keep his balance against the wall. He would have cried out in pain, but the years of training drilled into his useless brain kept him silent. "Fool! You could have destroyed everything I worked for!" The French voice was at once recognizable, and Berthier's teeth clenched in disgust, though he said nothing, and suffered another blow to his ear for his silence. "It could have been done differently! If Rouget talks -- if we lose him on your account...!" Another blow to the head. Berthier's world spun. He was vaguely aware of being dragged by the collar by Desgas to his superior, and tossed up against the cold stone wall in front of Chauvelin.

"You employ morons!" Desgas snapped, forgetting himself and his position. "Saint-Just could have been informed in a quieter manner!" He sent a scathing look at Berthier, still huddling close to the wall, and sliding closer to Chauvelin in fear of the much broader, taller man that had just attacked him for no reason. "But alas! you will want to know -- Dewhurst and the other...MacKensie, I believe -- are off in search of their leader at this very moment. Jacques is keeping an eye on them, but it may be something you want to see to personally, citoyen. The two fools believe we know who the Pimpernel is...and I have no doubts they mean to seek him out and warn him of his danger..."

Chauvelin was reprimanding him... "...working with our target and not a pair of fops looking for the opportunity to make an example of the French Ambassador's aid, then would it not be a sounder course of action to have every capable hand monitor them?"

It was all Desgas could do to bite his tongue and refrain from telling Chauvelin that he was an ass! What, did he think his top henchman was a fool? A common cutthroat with the brain of the despicable creature, Berthier, beside him? Out of a hateful respect he lowered his eyes, acknowledging his senior. "They are not playing games, citoyen...I am the one who has pulled the wool over their own foolish eyes! Jacques is watching them now," he said, his teeth aching with rage -- but his voice was calm and even, which he was thoroughly grateful for. "Rouget and Berthier were no where to be found, otherwise I would have set them on the two -- but I thought you might wish to know...to watch for yourself..." Oh mighty ass!

Desgas clenched and unclenched his teeth a half dozen times before tearing his eyes away from his retreating supervisor and turning the hateful gaze onto Berthier -- who was clearly wishing he had trailed along after Chauvelin, instead of remaining beside the disgusting brute who he had the displeasure of reporting to. Chauvelin was one thing, with his condescending tone and mocking eyes, but Desgas was quite another. His heavy hand already left a bright red stain across the stout man's ear, and he did not want to find a matching mark on the other one.

"They took Rouget to the kitchen," he said, his low voice no more than a snarl. "Go and seek him out -- and prepare to be on the move, you have likely botched the whole operation!"

Berthier stalked down the hall, away from the ballroom, his shoulders haunched over in furious humiliation.

After he was out of sight, Desgas took to the shadows and returned to the ballroom. The tedious English dancing was still going on and the floating couples obscured his vision of Saint-Just and her victim. Teresia was no longer on the floor with Ffoulkes. Excellent, at least she had honed in on her target -- the sooner she bedded him, the sooner all would come to light. Through the swirling skirts and tall, stiff gentleman, Desgas caught a glimpse of Marguerite. Still at Bathurst 's side, but by the looks of it she had yet to finish her job. Perhaps she was the one he should take to task, not the du Tournai...

At the thought of the young chit he glanced around, startled. How had he lost sight of her in this mess? She had simply disappeared. Was it possible she knew the identity of her rescuer? She could not have gone to warn him! -- if the two fops had gone to her...if she was part of the operation... but no! Ridiculous!

Across the hall, MacKensie and Dewhurst stood chatting with the tall turkey -- Blakeney. Likely the fool had stepped in their way as they tried to fly to warn their infamous leader. Desgas would need to check with Jacques to find out if they had made contact with any other since they had emerged from the library. And Chauvelin did not take him seriously! The bastard! His tone would change.

He leaned back against the wall to watch. All he could do had been done. His only interest was in Dewhurst and MacKensie. From this angle he could monitor Saint-Just, Bathurst, the two fops and keep his eye out for du Tournai. Something intriguing was likely to pass his eye...

<Percy>

Through a pounding headache, Percy listed details in a few crisp words: "I must leave before dawn. Ride to Dover. Sail with the tide. Armand - Chauvelin. Both in Dover at the same time. A coincidence? I think not!

Shipwash's comfortable house, the perfect grounds, all of it an impeccable stage for a horrendous game. He took a deep breath, grateful that he was no longer alone. Each man among them was beyond reproach - a master. For all that reassurance, he felt suffocated by tight bands of pressure in his chest. Damn! For too long now he'd been weighing everything in the balance and coming up short.

"Chauvelin is here," he said, his voice nearly hoarse with breathlessness. "Pursuing the little du Tournai. I'm certain he knows she was brought across by us and has a fair clue as to a few of our names. I despair to imagine how many names are on his list. I would venture, both of yours," he pointed out Dewhurst and MacKensie. "My first thought is that you must return to London and attend at least three very public engagements in the next few days. Be seen. Ffoulkes is not so well known. I pray that I am not included in the list because there is no help for it - I must go. Armand will only come to me."

Percy didn't say that Armand's life was forfeit if he didn't link up with him quickly. He didn't dare think that Armand was already beyond rescue. His mind was rushing ahead to better times. He would get Armand free - there was no other way. Suddenly he felt very petty as he realised he'd begun this evening imagining that freeing Armand would give him some cachet with Marguerite; now he knew he must win for Armand's life was at stake.

Tony cleared his throat as if he intended to speak, but Percy laid a heavy hand on his shoulders, stilling him. With his chin he pointed toward the corridor and whispered, "Where is Chauvelin?" No one seemed to know. "You must be aware that he will not be alone. I have seen no one lookin' more than passin' French. There are the �migr�s, of course, but who else?"

MacKensie frowned as if the sum were too great for him to figure.

"Think!" Percy demanded. "If I expect Chauvelin would not come with fewer than 2 henchmen, he probably has 4."

Tony shot him a searching look. Of course, Percy sighed. We know barely half the people present. Who might be a revolutionary plant? Percy rubbed the bridge of his nose and wished he'd eaten something before drinking so much.

"Have any of you noticed the Spaniard with Bathurst ?" he asked as a diversion. "Pretty thing. Far lovelier than I'd imagined for first acquaintance."

"Percival," he said, his voice heavy with annoyance. "If you did not notice her at first glance, I can only imagine it is because old age has weakened your eye-sight. Perhaps you should use that spy glass more often for it to be effective." Tony knew the cheif had a lot on his mind, but he would be damned if Percy would silence him just as he was about to speak. Tony leaned in, motioning to a beautiful Countess on his right.

"I have seen more than two of the Frenchman's lackeys here this eve. I believe there are three, there may be more though. What they lack in subtlety they make up for in numbers and stealth! Then there is Desgas, who, if you haven't been bloody well listening, has seems to know about Calais . He mentioned it would be a short amount of time before they knew *the* name of the Pimpernel." He leaned back. "And can you blame me for blushing when she said such a thing to me?" He said in a normal tone, the smile he sported not quite reaching his eyes.

He should not have tarried with Madamoiselle Volanges there were far too many pressing issues at hand, but he was only a man after all. Nearly three weeks without a woman, it was enough to make a tricoteuse look appealing. So he was led astray by a pretty face and come-hither eyes... she was lucky he'd shown as much restraint as he did. The problem with this, and it was a problem, was that he still hadn't contacted Blakeney. He wondered how Fanshawe had fared.

Hastings flitted from room to room, conversation to conversation, keeping an eye out for the chief. It was not like he could rush out like a mad man, that would draw unnecessary attention to them both. Everything must appear casual. There must be no reason to draw Chauvelin's (or one of his spies') curiosity. Hopefully Fanshawe had intercepted Sir Percy already. He had greater knowledge of the details, which There was less likelihood that Fanshawe would be suspect, and because of his work it was likely that spies would avoid the tall Scotsman.

He found Percy just after he passed the card rooms, well saw him rather and wisely didn't approach. It looked like Dewhurst and MacKensie found him first, Hastings caught sight of them from across the room. From Percy's somber manner, Hastings gathered that Fanshawe found him first, or that he had passed the word through Dewhurst and MacKensie who were practically pawing at the ground in their excitement. If anyone had the slightest suspicion that they were in the League, their suspicions were merited now. If anyone of them was suspected, then every man they associated with was suspect as well.

Rather than join his friends, Hastings emerged himself in a nearby conversation - watching the room. He had a hunch that Percy was already planning his return to France , he wondered how soon they would be leaving. He would probably need to meet with them, hopefully after the party where there were people around to eavesdrop. Hastings waved away a valet who offer him a tray of pate and realized this was the second time he'd dismissed the same man. He'd watched the valet circle without even realizing the oddity. The man should have gone to another room where his wares were wanted, but this one circled like a buzzard. He was watching someone. Shifty-eyed little bastard. Blakeney. Dewhurst. MacKensie. Himself. He didn't know. But Percy was linked to whoever it was, if it was not himself. He looked around for some way of warning his friends that they were being watched.

MacKensie clenched and unclenched his jaw half a dozen times throughout the exchange between Blakeney and Dewhurst. He listened casually, his eyes lowered to his cuticles as he appeared to determine the status of each manicured nail. Soon they would be filthy with French soil, he thought passingly, trying to keep himself from snatching Blakeney by the shoulders and shaking him half to death in an attempt to make him listen to the details he and Tony had related.

They knew! They bloody knew about the Pimpernel's hideout, his league, perhaps even the name of the man himself! And Percy was worried about how many men Chauvelin had brought along? Half a dozen, no doubt! Who they were, he did not know -- all he was concerned with was the fact that Chauvelin's main man, Desgas, had just reiterated to an unknown source that he k-n-e-w the name of the Pimpernel. Perhaps that was a boast, a bit of a stretch -- but he knew something! Why else would he have said such a thing when he thought no one around? Why fool his own men?

That was a good question? Why else *would* that conversation have occured? He looked up suddenly, dropping his hand to his side. As soon as he and Tony were alone they must confer...

Percy had said something about them staying in London and attending three events...and something about Ffoulkes.

"They know Andrews name," he half whispered, half mouthed, calmly taking a look around him to be sure that absolutely no one was within hearing distance. Across the room he could see the tall, French spy -- Desgas -- but his attention was being paid elsewhere. Apparently he had seen something of interest in the hall.

"Desgas was on him like a hawk earlier -- they know more than you think they do, Percy." He laughed randomly, as if Tony had just made a joke about old lady Hamelton, and clapped his companion on the shoulder. "I should say!"

<Percy>

Who else, Percy wondered as he ran through lists of names. Leaving these two to be a presence in London depleted his ranks considerably. Dewhurst in particular, who could finish his sentences for him, was so good at being where he was needed without having to be told. Andrew would come along - of course he would. Drop whatever he had going and follow like a leaf in the wind. Percy ran his hand distractedly through his hair. Who else could he drag off to France in an hour's notice?

'They know Andrew's name,' MacKensie muttered, and the wheels in Percy's head ground to a halt. He turned weary eyes in MacKensie's direction and tried to focus on him. "D'you think so?" Was he so focused on Armand, so distracted by Marguerite and so shocked by pretty du Tournai revealing his secret, that he was losing touch with the game? The hand in his hair slid forward and scrubbed his face. He wobbled on his feet.

"God, I'm feelin' monstrous sick." He wondered how many drinks he'd had. Tried to remember eating something and couldn't. Perhaps he wished to get himself killed. Most of the night felt like a blur save the point when Suzanne had rounded on him like a fishwife, shouting that he didn't know his wife. His own wife. According to du Tournai, Marguerite was not a spy. According to MacKensie, Chauvelin already knew Ffoulkes was in the league. And what else? What else was missing?

"I think so, Percy -- they've been watchin' him all evenin'." Back to the cuticles. He was absolutely aware that this was not the place to have such a conversation -- but he and Tony had felt it necessary to share the information they had come across. And so they had.

A pair of buckled shoes caught his eye, not too far off. He knew those tailor-made shoes and custom buckles. His hand dropped back to his side and he looked up to catch Percy's eye. "Three events in London , then. I'll be waitin' for your instructions." He nodded at Tony. "Gentlemen."

The owner of those particular shoes was just turning away a Shipwash servant with a tray of champagne. "Hastings," MacKensie said, a bit more jovial than he felt, "you can hardly be goin' soft, ol' boy!" He snatched up two flutes before the servant could pass him and held out the sweet champagne to his friend. "By the look on your face that pretty lass was hardly worth your time -- what happened, chap?"

"... apparently he'd caught the fox in record time or undoing those stays had taken longer than I thought, for the next thing I know he back and calling for the stable boy. Demmed tricky situation, considering I'd already had the girls skirts over her head and she not the quietest of lover..." Hastings chuckled at the picture Hawkesbury painted - he too had his share tricky rendezvous. Melbourne smiled awkwardly, the subject hit too close to home for his tastes. Occassionally, Hastings glanced across the room and wondered at what infernal idiocy was motivating Dewhurst and MacKensie, it was a wonder that Percy hadn't upbraided them for being so damned foolish as to lead a spy direct to their chief. "... with the horse blanket over her, all that could be seen was a foot. So I convinced him it was the lady's maid..."

Another tray was presented to him, wine not the patee again, but Hastings dismissed it � not trusting the chap carrying it. It was during this brief interaction that he saw MacKensie cut across the room, making a bee line for him. Lud, had the man any brains!? If Hastings was lucky, MacKensie would continue on his merry, idiotic way, however luck was not on Hastings 's side. " Hastings , you can hardly be goin' soft, ol' boy!" Hastings groaned inwardly, but gave MacKensie a patronizing smile. At this rate they might as well have 'Member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel' writ across their heads.

"The mother appeared before I could do more than kiss the girl," Hastings replied, "I see you've shown your companion far more than I, old chap." Hawkesbury chuckled and MacKensie gave him a questioning look. Hastings saw the suspicious valet turn his attention on them. With any luck, he could be drawn away from Percy, but lord knew how many were there. "But now that I've seen you, I'll give you the opportunity to win back that carvat pin I liberated from you at Melbourne's."

"Or lose another," Melbourne chuckled, thumping MacKensie heavily on the back. "I refuse to sit at the same table as Hastings, for fear of losing the very shirt off my back to him."

"Not as bad as all that," Hastings returned. "Perhaps luck will favor MacKensie tonight... you know how fortune favors the Scots." Hastings laid a friendly hand on MacKensie's shoulder and propelled him toward the gaming rooms. When they were out of earshot, Hastings whispered, "MacKensie, you are an ass! It was bad enough that you and Dewhurst lead Chauvelin's spies to our friend, but do you plan to lead them to every other member of the league as well?"

The only visible sign of Glynde's discomfort, was a slight shifting in his seat. The extra cushion, strategically placed beneath his new scar did little to alleviate it. He'd been sitting at this table for a considerable amount of time, after all, he thought. His limbs would be itching to get up, without having that last memento of Polly's. He was loathe to leave his winnings behind, however. Apparently there was many a fat purse to be emptied at this party, for in front of him lay a small heap of coins. He eyed the bigger prize in the center of the table, and displayed his winning hand. This elicited a groan from the gentlemen, joining him at the table, and a few claps on the back from onlookers their game had gathered.

Philip had managed to explain away his 2-week absence from social gatherings with a bit of a "riding mishap", making for a rather embarrassing injury. By some miracle, nobody had heard about the true happenings that night. Though, many gathered there was more to the story than he was willing to tell, all attempts to find out were met with some vague remark. Philip sighed. To think he had considered proposing to the witch. He gave a slight shudder. How many times had she been visited by that Irish bugger, in Glynde's absence, before?

He spotted the girl just outside the room, flirting with some overly-embroidered violet waist-coat, that clashed horribly with the ruby buttons, which barely managed to keep the thing closed. Glynde groaned inwardly. How could anyone dare to leave his home in such a state?

Glynde caught her looking longingly in his direction. Was that regret shining in her eyes? He gave the lady a smirk, picked up a flawless sapphire ring, from his winnings, and turned it over, in his hands, not breaking eye-contact with the lovely Polly, to see her reaction, as the sparkling of the remarkable stone drew her gaze. Her eyes grew huge as saucers, as she saw the ring in his hand, likely realizing what he had been about to do. She gave him a questioning look, almost daring to let a happy smile grace her lips, probably thinking he might propose now, here, after all she had done in the past month.

Glynde, satisfied that she was watching, apparently hopeful to step back into his favors, looked down at the priceless ring. It really was quite flawless. It would have been a lovely engagement ring. The glittering reminded him much of the lady Pauline's sapphire eyes, when they shone with passion. The memory now left a bitter taste in his mouth, imagining where last her lips had been.

Her allowance had been considerably cut, and she had been informed that she needed to find a new arrangement, elsewhere. Soon. A ruined, young, divorcee, she had been quite fortunate to fall into Sir Philip's embrace. Though, now, it became apparent that any reasonably heavy purse would do for her. The girl had ruined her chances at an easy, love-filled life with the baronet. Love? Philip thought, heaving a dramatic sigh. Fickle.

His eyes met hers once more, seeking to dash any hope shining back at him. He brought the ring to his lips, softly kissed the flawless stone, then dropped it on a passing tray. The little girl, serving the champagne would retire tonight, a rich woman.

Lady Pauline, he could see, was speechless, looking quite the fish, with her mouth gaping like that. Philip gave her a cold smile, and patted his chin, shaking his head, indicating for her to close that pretty mouth. She'd be needing it in the near future. After all, something had to pay the bills, and it wouldn't be him.

Lady Pauline's mouth snapped shut. She gave him a scathing look, turned on her heels, and fled the scene, leaving her ruby-buttoned, purple waistcoat staring after her, scratching his head, none the wiser for the small exchange. Philip sighed, the smile, dying on his lips. Damn the wench, and her sapphire eyes! He shifted again, and snatched another glass off a passing tray. In seconds, it joined 20 others, standing by his elbow, on the table. You'd think someone would clean this mess up.

He looked at the fellows, sitting around him, complaining of having lost a fortune to a drunk. Glynde gave them a sympathetic look, nodded, and vacated the table, taking the cushion with him, but leaving the winnings behind to be distributed among the original owners. Sir Philip had no need to line his pockets. He grabbed yet another glass off a tray, and leaned on his new accessory - an expertly carved cane, his new pride an joy - making a show of his limp. Truth be told, he was nearly rid of it, but he enjoyed the sympathetic looks, and mothering tendencies of the ladies, never mind the choicest seats, etc...

Hastings continued to smile, even though he felt the great urge to slap MacKensie upside the back of his head. He would have if they'd been alone, but if they'd been alone there wouldn't be terrorist baying at their heels and the problem would be non-existent. "I didn't say you shouldn't talk to anyone, just not *certain* people. While it was true there were half a dozen men there, all would be been placed on Chauvelin's list of suspects, then all he'd have to do is check the society rag and realize I've been away for the last two weeks, even if the excuse was business." It wasn't entirely MacKensie's fault that even the whole of English was not safe anymore, that those infernal revolutionary spies had infiltrated the country in search of them. They would have to be extra careful in the future. Up ahead Sir Phillip Glynde emerged from the card room, leaning heavily - perhaps a bit too much so on an extravagant walking stick that seemed to suit his taste. Lord, off the sinking ship and into the ocean! Hastings averted his eyes, hopeful Glynde would take the hint and not join them. "I may have made myself more suspect, but I hope that that means they will begin to follow us and forget the others."

Philip threw a last look at the mess on the table. Nigh on twenty empty flutes. Was there no one who picked these things up? He frowned, not being accustomed to the evidence of just how much champagne he drank, being so boldly displayed. Shipwash's swill, seemed to be about as effective as his staff. Intolerable.

Philip hadn't even noticed how little he'd eaten that day when, his stomach growled. Bloody hell! When Glynde looked up to make sure nobody was within earshot of that horrid gurgling, a pleasant surprise greeted him. Hastings. Their eyes met, briefly, but his attentions were diverted by...what was that fellow's name again...Mac-something. Philip took in the man's attire. MacKensie. That was it. He was staring after the retreating form of the little lady Pauline. Philip frowned at him.

He hadn't even been aware that Hastings was at this do. The lord was avoiding his eyes, after that brief glimpse. Was he hiding something? Had he been with his Polly, too? Anger flashed his eyes, then quickly died away as the ridiculousness of such thoughts made Glynde chuckle. Anyone was welcome to the wench now. Jealous of Hastings. He shook his head, and limped over to his old friend, only to be diverted by an even more welcome sight.

"You!" With purpose, Glynde strode through his friends' conversation. "Pardon, gentlemen." He dropped Lady Shipwash's cushion into Hasting's confused hands, and caught the eye of a little man, holding a tray, who was looking quite startled. "Yes, you!" Glynde snatched his tray, and proceeded to lecture him. Systematically stripping the tray of all its edible contents, as he ranted, Philip walked the man over to the door of the gameroom, and showed him the mess of glasses still adorning the card table. It was much like rubbing a puppy's nose in his own filth. What else was going to teach these creatures? It was a miracle, Shipwash's servants were even housebroken. He thrust the empty tray back at the stunned figure, and commanded "Now clean that up!" shoving him in the direction of the table. Glynde watched, arms crossed, as the mess was finally cleared away. Unbelievable.

Glynde flashed a satisfied, somewhat tipsy smile at the small crowd he'd drawn with his little rant. After the initial confusion passed, he saw, Hastings looked as though he could barely contain his mirth at the absurdity of the scene. Philip felt a bit of a chuckle coming on himself, suddenly remembering what had happened on the last occasion he had way too much time on his hands, and too much bad drink.

<Percy>

MacKensie had departed, lost in the swirl of colours beyond Blakeney's vision. Percy held up his quizzing glass to clear the picture. He found Hawksbury with Melbourne and some anonymous skirt flirting with them both. He could tell by the span of her waist that she was very young, probably a long-legged chit of sixteen. She'd have a trial by fire in this raffish society! He continued to gaze at the people around him. Footmen everywhere. Shipwash had brought in extra servants from some neighbour to help with the party and some of them were bumbling bumpkins to be sure. That one wasn't holdin' his tray steady, and look at the way he loped along. The one passing champagne had a few lurid spots of yellow on his cravat as if he'd been snacking from his tray - the butler should dress him down for such a lack of form. Then . . . then it struck him. That one, that one, and that one over there - three footmen and not a ribboned queue among the lot. They all had short hair. Short hair.

Percy dropped his quizzing glass and grabbed Tony's shoulder. "Have you laid eyes on my wife at all this evening?" Once again Percy used the quizzing glass, this time seeking the blue and yellow Blakeney colours, but there was no sign of Henshaw. "Tony, I think it's too late to go to France . Some of the servants at this party are revolutionaries. Look at 'em. Who else do you know who has cut his hair? Only Charles James Fox and a handful of pro-revolutionary radical Whigs. I think Lady Shipwash has been compromised and by someone close to her."

If the revolutionaries had infiltrated this house then they knew that Lady Shipwash was one of the aristocrats who welcomed �migr�s. "Damnation, I am the greatest fool! To think I've done my damnedest to protect Marguerite from harm and yet I brought her here where she is certain to be . . . come on, Tony! I've ordered Henshaw to keep an eye on Margot, but it would be nearly impossible for him to find us in this crush. I'm going back to the ballroom and from there I'll search the public rooms on the main level." His eyes gravitated upstairs. Would Marguerite be secreted in one of the bedrooms? Not making love, but being compromised in some other ghastly way? "From left to right. In order. Meet me back here in twenty minutes. If you see her, try to convince her to come away with you. Don't mention my name." Percy sighed as he watched Dewhurst leave. What an impasse to think that even if he found Marguerite, she was least likely to come to him willingly. He had to hope that Dewhurst located her first.

If they managed to get this this evening, he was going to have to establish some sort of signalling system with MacKensie and Glynde in case they ran into more situations like this. The methods they used in France were unappropriate in this setting and would likely draw more attention than they needed, Hastings noted mentally as he winced at Glynde's approached. Lud, at this rate, by the end of the night Chauvelin would have the name of every league member at the party. He met MacKensie's eye briefly, then returned his attention to the lumbering figure of Glynde, who plowed right through them to their unwanted tail, knocking Hastings into a nearby table as he thrusted a cushion into Hastings 's chest. Regaining his balance, Hastings stared down at the finelt stitched pillow and threw it aside - should have thrown it at Phillip's head. What was his game? Turning to find MacKensie just as baffled, Hastings stood gaping as Glynde berated the man, then shoo him into the card room. "Drink as a lord..." He heard someone nearby say. Perhaps. He saw Glynde smirk as he stood over the little revolution and wondered if Philip had merely exaggerated his condition to divert the unwanted guest.

"Let's use this diversion to give the little bugger the slip," Hasting whispered to MacKensie, indicating the doors to the terrace down the hall with his chin. He glanced back at Glynde then walked quickly with MacKensie, keeping his voice low and paused when they drew too close to other people. "I gather Fanshaw's delivered his information... has a course of action been decided?"

The baronet noted that Hastings' look of horror at his approach had turned to relief when he glanced back. Something was definitely afoot. He raised a brow. Relief had appeared at his removal of the footman. Philip's attention returned to the chastened little man clearing the table. The apparent ignorance of their duties by the servants at this party had vexed him from the minute he had entered the place, but he had dismissed it in his preoccupation with Polly. Damn her! Seeing Hastings had brought the baronet back to the present. Something seemed very much out of place here. The footman's shoes were unpolished, the uniform somewhat stained...no, Philip frowned. This was the first time he had seen a footman with no queue at any of Lady Shipwash's events. Revolutionary? Philip blanched. Bloody Hell! For all he knew, he'd just wolfed down a tray full of poison meant for the French nobles at this do. Philip halted his presently overactive imagination. He shrugged inwardly. It would just serve him right, really. His vigilance had slipped dangerously tonight. A fine sentinel he was - taking the proper action purely by chance. Letting a woman divert his attentions like that was a mistake the baronet now silently vowed never to repeat.

"Drunk as a lord." The whispered statement drew him out of his musings. He turned towards the voice. "Quite so, quite so." He forced a chuckle, and added a slight stumble, 'slipping' with his cane to emphasize the effect. This elicited a gasp from a pretty little lady nearby. Philip winked. The girl smiled, blushing. Little beauty! Her chaperone pulled her out of sight. Glynde heaved a sigh as his silent vow flew out the window, and the onlookers dispersed. Whispers of his drunkenness at this party would follow him for years to come...but being thought deep in his cups excused many a scene, and sometimes let him learn just a little more than people would think he'd be able to remember.

Out of the corner of his eye, Philip noted MacKensie's shoes heading for the nearest door to the terrace. The baronet retrieved the cushion Hastings had tossed aside, seeking to return it to his hostess, then to follow his friends by way of the ballroom. His findings should be shared in a less crowded environment, and he was itching to learn who else was in attendance.