Bloody spies everywhere. Bloody French. Bloody bloody...Philip's mind ranted on. Another trip to Paris was the last thing he wanted. His memories were alive and well right here in England. He cast a glance in the direction he had last seen Lady Wexton. She was gone. There were too many unanswered questions.

Returning to the ballroom once more, he saw yet another familiar face sitting just by the door, looking forlorn, and quite vexed. Beside her sat that same weepy willow he had noticed outside, shadowing Andrew. Philip frowned. That little weasel knew. He was pestering his target's wife now. What was he planning to do with her? Well, whatever it was, Philip would just have to slip a little fly into that bastard's ointment tonight, and rescue the damsel. She obviously didn't care to remain in his company.

The baronet arranged a surprised smile on his face, and veered for a greeting. "Lady Blakeney!" He bowed low over the delicate, gloved hand that was offered, giving it a gentle, welcoming squeeze. "I haven't seen you in..." he frowned "how long has it been?" He chuckled. "You must forgive me, I have no memory for dates, but your lovely presence, I could not forget." Philip smiled at her with all the charm in his possession, and stepped between her and Chauvelin, apparently not having noticed the smaller man.

'Sir Philip, you flatter me!' The lady looked quite relieved. 'I trust you are in good health.' Philip chuckled at this. "Aye, my lady, as good as can be expected." the baronet toyed with his cane. "I --" the shadow against the wall behind Lady Blakeney of the man approaching interrupted him. It was all too familiar.

"Sir Philip?"

"What is it?" Philip answered without looking at his valet. He did not want any other surprises tonight. A murder of those french crows, the compromise of the Pimpernel, having to return to Paris, and the reappearance of Danielle Tremaine in his life was quite enough for one day. His gut told him, this would not be good news.

"It's about your carriage, sir..." The man stalled.

Philip closed his eyes, and gave a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose against his growing headache. "Yes?"

"It's...um..." his valet seemed hesitant to speak while so many ears were about.

Philip excused himself, and took Chilton aside where they spoke in hushed tones, keeping the lady, and that little French bastard in his sights.

"Out with it, man. I'm not in the mood for riddles." Impatience laced the baronet's words.

"It's missing." the man stated, bluntly.

This gave Philip pause. He dropped his hand to rest atop the other on his cane as he turned to look at Chilton, raising an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

His valet shrugged. "The carriage is gone." He responded, matter-of-fact.

Philip gave the man a blank look. Chilton shrugged again. "Hickley came to the kitchens for just a minute. He said when he went back out, it was gone, and the other drivers were down by the pond - helping the smith, I think he said. Only Smith was in the kitchens with me. " he informed his lord, calmly.

Philip's lips twitched. "Indeed." He couldn't have thought of a more fitting end for tonight's gauntlet - a good long walk.

"Aye, sir."

Philip gave a grunt in response, and returned to Lady Blakeney as Chilton disappeared. He pulled a chair to the spot between the lady and the little man he decided for the moment to treat as nothing more than a potted plant. "Please, excuse my manners, my lady, but I shall have to sit down." He shook his head, and lowered himself onto the seat with a pained grimace, effectively shielding her from the vulture. "This is rather embarrassing." Philip spoke quietly to the lady, as not to let anyone else hear this news - especially that little weasel. "I was just informed that I shall have to walk back to town." he shared, chuckling in disbelief.

Shaking his head, the baronet puzzled over the news of his missing carriage. How on earth? Hickley had a lot to answer for. That carriage was attached to a brand new midnight black team of Arabians. They were the perfect compliment to the vehicle, aesthetically as well as in performance. That thing may very well have been one of the fastest carriages in the country behind those dark beauties. Philip leaned forward on his cane with a sigh. It had been folly to let his pride dictate the style he travelled in tonight.

Philip supressed a small shudder as he virtually felt the glare of that slimey little French eel on his back. Men such as he had been not only a part of the mob who had executed children past and present, but leading it. The baronet's instinct to just turn and crash his cane over this one's head until it was a mass of jelly was under tight control. Scenes such as that would do no good to any babies still in line for the guillotine, however. There would be someone to replace the man, while his killer would be locked away, no longer able to hinder the evil.

'Do forgive my abrupt departure, Margot, but I did have matters to discuss with Lord Grenville...' Seeing those black shoes step in front of him, and hearing the man address the lady so familiar, Philip tensed to keep from abruptly raising his cane to watch him crumple to the floor. 'Thank you for all you have done tonight, your help has been... invaluable.' Help? Philip glanced at her. She stubbornly refused to look up at the man, apparently not returning his pleasure at what 'assistance' she had lent. The baronet's patience at this scum's presence waned, and his inclination to castrate him right then and there increased tenfold. 'And I regret not having the time to make your acquaintance, Monsieur�'

Philip's eyes finally travelled upward - not too far from his seated position - to meet Chauvelin's. Seeming quite at ease, he slowly stood, towering over the miniature of a man, a cold smile on his lips, along with a sharp remark. Before he could utter it, however, Lady Blakeney demonstrated just how helpful she was to this walking bit of evil by supplying him with the baronet's full name. Bloody woman! Philip bit back a groan, and schooled his features to show none of this internal ranting. He nodded his head ever so slightly to acknowledge the formal introduction. 'A pleasure,' the words oozed from Chauvelin just before he removed himself. That mama had very likely just put Philip in line for her baby after all, he thought. Damnation! The baronet returned to his seat as he watched the 'ambassador' leave. His jaw worked while the little Frenchman nearly bounced away with pleasure. Bloody Hell!

"So that's the ambassador I've heard so much about." He remarked to Lady Blakeney. "I must say, for all the ghastly deeds that are being attributed to him, I thought him taller." Philip had been quite aware of the man's identity. Until this moment, he had been able to avoid an introduction. He sighed. The man would have gotten the baronet's name eventually. There wasn't a soul in the ton unaware of the identity and reputation of Sir Philip Glynde, Baronet, in one way or another. Bugger it!

'Stature alone does not predict how dangerous a man can be,' The forlorn tone of the statement prompted Philip to look closer on the lady. 'He is capable of causing much suffering with merely his words.' Was she aware of Philip's thoughts? Not 30 seconds ago he had been pondering the effects men such as this 'ambassador' have had on so many innocent lives. The effect he had on... Philip frowned.

She seemed to remember someone was beside her. 'Forgive the interruption, Sir Philip� I believe you said something about walking home. Is something wrong?' The quick change of subject hinted that her thoughts had been of a more personal nature than Philip's. One she was unwilling to share. His eyes narrowed. What had Chauvelin done to Lady Blakeney?

"Indeed, I must agree. It is after all but a little mouse that has mighty paciderms running scared." he chuckled mirthlessly. Ah but to follow the urge to stomp out that life. "Nevermind." He straightened a bit. "There is something wrong, but nothing that needs concern you, my lady. I apologize for laying my personal business on you. I was caught by surprise." Philip's lips twitched in amazed amusement, nearly giving way to laughter. "It seems someone's made off with my transportation." He shook his head. Now that the pestering mouse was gone, the baronet thought it safe to leave the lady's side. Slowly heaving himself off the chair assisted by his cane, he stood once more. "If you will excuse me, I --"

"There's the bitch!" Philip's head whipped about to determine where that hissed whisper had originated. The voice was speaking French. "She's the one who killed them all." The baronet's eyes settled on a portly man, who's salt-and-pepper hair was thinning a might on top. "My close-cousin and his family were murdered because of that whore!" What in Hades' dark Underworld was the man on about? The vacant eyes, the glass in his hand, along with the reddening of his features, and slight weaving, even as he stood, suggested to Philip that the man was quite far into his cups. He decided to ignore him.

"Forgive me, I thought I heard..." His gaze returned to Lady Blakeney who seemed to not have heard any of what had been said. He shook his head. "I--"

"...Saint-Just. She did it. Denounced them all." The whispering continued. The name gave Philip pause, prompting him to freeze once again, and listen. The voice lowered. "....cousin....king...Saint-Cyr..."

The lady looked at him, apparently puzzled at why he kept pausing mid-sentence. The voice was just behind him. Did she truly not hear, or had she chosen to ignore it? "...Saint-Cyr...Fontaine...Blakeney" the voice went on. Philip abandoned his intention to leave the lady's side, and turned to the voice. "I beg your pardon, sir." the drunken figure blinked up at him. "You mentioned the names of some friends of mine just then..."

"Friends of yours," the heavily accented voice spat in English. "Your lady-friend there is a murderess!" The man took a step toward Lady Blakeney, pointing a finger. "She killed Saint-Cyr, and you claim her as a friend." He stepped closer still, but before he could lay a finger on the woman, a cane sharply rapped the knuckles of the closest hand.

Philip returned the stick to the floor, leaning on it. "I suggest, sir," His voice was ice. "You freeze your tongue this instance."

The hushed tones of the exchange kept most of the assembly from noticing the accusations flying, but Philip could not be sure to keep the man quiet, unless he knocked him out. His eyes judged the distance to the terrace, and the size of the man. If there was a struggle in the ballroom, the whole place would know what happened here. Not yet... "But she murdered my kin." The man, again pointing, was still too close to the lady to suit the baronet.

He stepped around the man, leaning the butt of his cane against the accuser's chest, forcing him a few paces backwards. Simultaneously, he took Lady Blakeney's hand, and pulled her behind him, advancing on the man being pushed out onto the empty terrace. "Do not make me repeat myself, sir." The promise of danger tinged Philip's barely audible words.

Anger reddened the man's face even further. "The Saint-Cyr's....the de la Fontai --" Philip dropped the cane, letting it clatter to the floor, and closed the short distance between them. Grabbing the man's jacket, he lifted the bugger against the garden-wall until he was barely supported by his toes. The action was shielded from the ballroom by the broad frame of the baronet, as the drunkard was forced into a corner.

A deep crimson clouded Philip's vision as a low growl issued from him. His face was but a breath from the accuser, his words scarcely audible, yet they made the man flinch as though he had been shouted at. "Never speak that name in my presence. I hear so much as 'de la' spill from your mouth, sir, and you won't have time to regret it." Philip dropped the man back onto his feet, straightening his coat for him, finishing with his wine-stained jabot, tightening it so it made the frenchman's eyes pop.

The baronet's eyes flashed with rage. "Mind your tongue, sir." He loosened the jabot enough for the man to gasp for air. "I will not mind it for you again this night," he stated, retrieving his cane from the floor.

Philip remembered Lady Blakeney's presence, and noted the familiar shadow joining hers along the wall, behind the gasping figure. The baronet batted invisible specks of dust off the other man's clothes, loudly stating "Are you quite alright now, man? You should be sure to chew more carefully next time." Then he whirled about. "Chilton," he called to his valet, who had returned from the kitchens, having sent Hickley for a hackney to take the baronet back to town. He hurried over. "This gentleman's choked." Chilton raised his eyebrows, knowing full well his lord's white lies. "Oh he's better now, aren't you, sir?" When there was hesitation, Philip's cane found a foot. The man glanced at the baronet and nodded. "He thought it better to return home and recover." The baronet gave his valet a meaningful look. "See to it that he finds his carriage."

Chilton led the man straight for the door where he would no doubt enlist the help of Hickley in seeing him securely on his way. Philip watched, sighing. He imagined tiny whispers about the incident already following the pair like ripples in the sea. As his name was repeated, an old rumor would no doubt resurface to effectively replace this new one. Though it had many think twice about stepping on the baronet's toes, he so wished it was possible to erase it from memory. Glynde...that's the one who killed Lord Wexton...

Philip turned to the ashen face of Lady Blakeney. She looked quite shaken by what had just transpired. "Nevermind him, my lady. The man won't bother you again." he took in her distressed expression. "You look as though you could use a seat, madam." Philip slowly walked her to a bench out of view of the ballroom. The baronet picked his flask out of his pocket, placing it in the delicately gloved hand, and nodded to the lady. She looked as though she could use something a might stronger than Shipwash's swill. A few sips were taken in silence as what had just taken place flew through his mind again. He scanned the area to make sure no one was anywhere near hearing-range. The lady remained hidden from prying eyes, while Philip made sure he could still be seen. At present, no one would dare step too close to him, as old deeds were remembered, the story sweeping through the room. Philip sighed, well aware of the isolation false accusations could force on a body. Percy's wife had his sympathy.

"Far be it from me to take the railings of a drunken man seriously, but that one was certainly determined." He gazed towards the ballroom, where the dance continued. Then his eyes blazed into hers. "Why you?" His hand went to his pocket to palm the miniature of Jacqueline. "I pray you're able to explain, my lady. That drunkard was not the only one to have lost someone that black day," he added, quietly, glancing at the tiny painting in his hand.

Philip leaned against the wall, folding his arms, and waited, patiently, for a denial of the accusations. He fully expected the name Chauvelin to explain the beginnings of this vicious rumor against Lady Blakeney, and thus, the Pimpernel. He is capable of causing much suffering with merely his words.

'There are always circumstances behind every story... reasons why actions seemed logical at a given time...'

Philip's eyes snapped up from the picture to the woman who seemed to be intricately studying the ground in front of her. It was true. His best intentions blew into the wind as he realized he had just defended the person responsible for the death of...Philip felt his pulse pound in his ears, and the world come to a screeching halt. Blakeney's wife...?

"It's true then." The baronet stated quietly, more to himself than Lady Blakeney.

An icy hand seemed to squeeze his heart as he strangled out the words. "Pray, my lady, what were these circumstances you speak of?" Silence. Philip reached out the hand containing the miniature of Jacqueline, letting the woman see what she had ended before it had a chance to begin. "Can you tell me," he asked in a whisper, "how any circumstances justify ending her short life in terror?"

Philip kept his temper under tight control. This was the reason he saw Jacqueline in the square that day. This woman held the answer to the questions that had been burning his soul ever since the moment the blade dropped on the girl. Philip caught his hand trembling, and forced it to relax. He wanted to shake the lady to make her speak. If he did that, however, he sensed he would ruin his chances for finding the truth about that day, and he would make an enemy of a dear friend. Instead, he watched her take the miniature from his hand. Philip straightened, leaning back against the garden-wall, and studied the woman in silence. What had she done? The baronet folded his arms to keep from reaching out and strangling that dark secret out of her. His features kept carefully blank, his anger in check, he stood, poised for casual conversation, waiting to hear the circumstances that caused the death of his god-daughter.

Philip stood, watching the woman cry. Visions of his god-daughter's blood flowing from Lady Blakeney's hands danced in front of his eyes. The baronet blinked. He was shaking, desperately clinging on to the remains of his control. Here sat his family's killer. The tale Lady Blakeney excused her role in the death of innocents with was incredible. If the name of that little ambassador had not made an appearance, Philip was sure to have laughed in her face. She put on a fine act, spilling tears over her triumph. Philip had to admit, her skill as an actress was unsurpassed in any performance he had ever seen. He almost believed them to be real... His eyes narrowed. He is capable of causing much suffering with merely his words. The lady's earlier words haunted him, keeping his temper in check, for the moment. Philip did not doubt that the weasel was involved, but was she truly an accomplice...or just his biggest pawn?

The baronet's jaw worked, and he took a step forward, slipping a hand into his sleeve. His fingers grazed the hilt of his slim dagger as his eyes bored into the weeping woman with a rage he could not keep from his gaze. 'Philip!' The man's head whipped about to glare at Hastings, more upset with himself for not having heard him approach, than his friend for interrupting. Philip turned to the lady once more, and pulled his handkerchief from below the dagger in his sleeve. He handed it to her, trembling with unreleased temper. Without another word, he retrieved his flask, as well as the miniature, dropping both into his pocket. A stiff bow to the lady dismissed her presence in his mind. Philip turned his back on her, and limped to his friend. "For Christ's sake, send her home!" He growled at Hastings. "She's no longer safe here, if ever she was." Philip walked to the door, coming to a halt just outside the ballroom. He leaned heavily on his cane, and watched the dancers move in unison to the slow steps of a minuette, as he waited for Hastings to get rid of the woman.

He spotted Lady Wexton sitting in a corner, gazing at the dancers as well. She was alone, and looking quite miserable. What had happened to her? Philip frowned. That particular shade of burgundy, her dress, had entered his field of vision fleetingly earlier. But when? It dawned on him. It had been next to the drunken frenchman. By Satan's Split Hooves! She had been there, and heard everything. She knew, as he did, who was responsible...

Philip turned cold eyes on Hastings. "The truth." His grip tightened on his cane. "Saint-Cyr." At the look of dawning understanding on Hastings' visage, Philip nodded. "Aye." His eyes narrowed. "You knew, didn't you?" The baronet closed his eyes, and held up his hand. "Nevermind."

Philip waited for the lady to leave the terrace with her escorts. His eyes bored into her retreating form. Fingers absently drummed along the top of his cane as he pondered all Lady Blakeney had told him.

Finally alone, the baronet turned abruptly, taking Hastings aside. "Chauvelin knows." The lack of surprise told him that this was not news. Philip nodded. He inclined his head in the direction the lady had gone. "She may be behind it." His jaw worked. "There's a possibility that she's the greatest actress in life as well as on stage, or she's merely a hapless pawn. I can't be sure of either at the moment." Confusion entered Hastings' expression. "With what I learned tonight, I'm fairly convinced that whether she knows or not, Lady Blakeney is Chauvelin's most brilliant tool."

'What is it you learned?' Hastings' commanding tone sent one of Philip's eyebrows to arching. After a slight pause, his friend launched into a witness account of the night's happenings. The baronet listened intently, occasionally glancing about to make sure no one else was in the position to do the same. By the time the young lord finished, Philip found his flask in his hand once more. 'Unfortunately the chief is long gone...' the baronet met Hastings' tale with silence. A frown adorned his features. He seemed to be intently pondering the top to his flask, not remembering how the thing opened. Finally, he returned it to his pocket, unused, as the confusion fled his face, replaced by a grin. "Armand," he laughed at himself. "Of course!" The baronet took the other man by the shoulders, and looked straight into his friend's eyes. "I'm an ass!" The man's confusion was complete, and Philip laughed at him as well. "She's a pawn. The bastard's using her as a bloody pawn." He let go, and gave a brief accounting of what she had told him. "Oh, I hate her. Her thoughtlessness caused my family..." the smile had abandoned his lips long ago, but he caught himself before his hand nearly snapped the top off his cane in anger. "Nevermind. It's Armand whose safety was in question both times, you see?" Tension visibly left his body with the revelation. "I should have seen it...Ffoulkes just said...it's right there." Philip tapped his cane on the floor for emphasis, shaking his head.

He looked into the ballroom for a moment, remembering more. "Lady Blakeney is a spy, but not by choice." he admitted aloud, through clenched teeth, though he wished at that moment it weren't true. Philip would happily snap her slender neck for what she's done. He heaved a sigh, forcing the rage aside. It would pass, in time.

There was another potential spy, however. Philip wondered at what possible hold there could be on Danielle to force her into a similar predicament...Perhaps he was imagining her role, and she'd been merely a curious admirer of the Pimpernel, as most young ladies were want to be...? Either way, it was better to be safe. "Danielle is alive." Philip showed his friend the tiny portrait she had returned to him. "She brought me this, and asked about the Pimpernel..." He watched the dancers inside once more, spotting her, standing near their hostess, looking quite defeated, and alone. "That's her." He pointed her out to Hastings. "It's possible that it was only the curiousity every other woman in the country seems to sport about the man..." he emphasized. "...but, as a dear friend used to say, 'care is the mother of the china-cabinet.'" He frowned. "...or some such thing. My German was never that good." he mumbled. "She bears watching." Philip's eyes strayed to his friend's once more. "Here's the really interesting part." A crooked, rueful smile crept over his face. "She's Wexton's widow."

"'A bad business'?" Philip snorted. "I'd say more on the verge of a catastrophe. I don't know if she's heard the rumors about her husband's final moments, but I do know she's aware of the rumors about Lady Blakeney's involvement in Saint-Cyr's execution." The baronet gazed at Danielle across the room, knowing full well how she felt. Philip frowned, remembering his own homicidal thoughts towards the woman not 5 minutes before. "To preserve Blakeney's wife, we should see to it that she never gets introduced to Lady Wexton."

How would she feel if she knew the truth about Arthur? Would she even believe him, if he told her? The baronet had told no one the details of that fateful day. None dared speak of it in his presence, and he was sure they all had drawn their own conclusions. He wondered if he would be trying to dodge daggers, or just the sharp edge of her tongue, if she knew of his involvement there.

'...before we'd said six words a female voice whispered that we are undone.' Philip turned Andrew�s words over in his mind, wondering where they fit in with his recent epiphany. A female voice... Perhaps..."You said you saw Lady Blakeney near the stables with Chauvelin?" What did she know? "Was there another skirt near the stables?" The baronet sent a querying glance towards his friend. "Ffoulkes said it was a woman's voice who'd warned them..." He left the thought unfinished, sure that he needn't say another word for Hastings to understand his meaning.

Looking up again, Philip caught the eye of their hostess, and the lady beckoned to him, almost frantically. "Bloody Hell!" He breathed before cocking a sardonic brow at his friend. "This ought to be interesting..." So he nodded curtly in farewell, "I'll see you in Paris." and left Hastings standing on the terrace while he limped his way towards Lady Shipwash, and Danielle.

<Suzanne>

Her slight eyebrow raise was the only indication she gave of her shock at his reaction to seeing her. How genuine his reaction seemed to her, lacking all the routines of the upper class. It matched her own delight at having found him after such a search, first running into Chauvelin (his very name in her head brought ice to her veins) to have Sir Percy step to her aid only to spat with him over his severe miscalculation of Marguerite's character, then her awkward conversation with Margot where she attempted to say everything while being careful enough to say nothing. She lowered herself in a deep curtsey, her hand remaining in his, unable to tear her eyes away from the bright.

"Monsieur Ffoulkes!" She said, delight adding a musicality to her speech. "I did not think you were `ere!" Her accent was thick as strawberry preserves. She almost blurted out that she had spent the evening in search of him but thought better. "Forgive me, I `ad convinced myself you were not `ere and finding you� now zat you are `ere I admit I am a leetle speechless." She smiled softly at him, relishing the feel of her hand in his. There was an innocence to the intimacy they had shared and yet she cherished it, thinking of how he had spoon fed her to help her recover from her fatigue, how tightly he had held her at the Fisherman's Rest as if releasing her would have broken her into a thousand pieces, the feel of his lips against hers, the intensity that burned in his eyes every time they looked at each other. Her heart was racing and her pupils dilated as she beheld him, captivated. Her lips parted as her smile widened and she finally broke their gaze.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst took both of her hands in his and looked deep into her terrified eyes � she was more beautiful than ever in her fear and vulnerability. �You�re perfectly safe, m�dear,� he reassured her. �I won�t let anyone harm you� you can believe that!� He waited to kiss her � kiss away her fears � but there were too many about. �For all I know these spies might be the Ambassador himself, gossips do tend to exaggerate.� And I�ll have to pound Ffoulkes for leaving you to your own devices, Bathurst thought to himself.

<Teresia>

She all but melted under Bathurst's gaze. It cost her dear to do so, for she had no desire to sleep with him now that she knew what she had come to discover. However, needs must and she still had to get home. "Gracias." she breathed and then, "may we leave now? I feel a little exhausted." Through beseeching eyes she watched for any change in his expression that might give away the true motive of his search.

<Andrew>

For all that he'd spent his life listening to spoken French, nothing quite touched him with the same *je ne sais quoi* as Suzanne's lilting accent. Oh god! Was he dying? His temperature had gone through the roof! He could feel runnels of sweat down his back and his hands - if she touched his hands she would know... she would know.

"I, uh, you are more than welcome, Miss du Tournai. I'm frankly pleased to see you in society. I only wish... do you hear music? Perhaps we may yet be able to share a dance before this night ends."

Everything that had gone before was forgotten. Percy - Percy who? All Andrew could think of was Suzanne du Tournai and her perfect, luminous, warmly brown eyes.

She extended a hand. He was nearly afraid to touch it, but after blinking twice, he managed to secure her tiny hand in his bearish claw. He felt too tall, too big, too hot. She was so cool and perfect. So wonderful.

<Suzanne>

"I, uh, you are more than welcome, Miss du Tournai. I'm frankly pleased to see you in society. I only wish... do you hear music?" Music? Did that mean it wasn't in her head? She grinned, feeling more like a child than she had in a while, perhaps even the better par of the year. Had the Revolution aged her somehow? Monsieur Ffoulkes talking quickly brought her back to the Shipwash Manor.

"Perhaps we may yet be able to share a dance before this night ends."

"Oui. Zat would settle our debt." She grinned, his eyes clouded with confusion. "Don't you remember, Monsieur Ffoulkes? I told you I wanted to repay you for�" Suzanne stopped herself as she saw a Frenchman dressed in black, out of the corner of her eye. Looking back at Ffoulkes with apologetic eyes, she continued. "You said I could repay you weeth a dance." She murmured, her thoughts suddenly returning to finding her parents but if she'd searched for this long without success, chances were they wouldn't miss her for a few more minutes. "I would enjoy zat." She smiled, her eyes gleaming. "Pardon," she asked, her French accent clipping at the word as she spoke impulsively. "I `ope you do not find zees too forward of me, but I only know your last name. I asked you on zee boat `ere and you said I would have to wait for formal introductions. I would like to know your name�" She trailed off, quite embarrassed but hoping that he would understand her curiousity

<Bathurst>

How could he refuse when the woman was so... demanding? The look in her eyes was all brazen allure, how could he resist such an invitation? The possibilities of what would happen when they were finally alone wiped every other thought out of his head. �Oh course we can leave, dearest.� He took her little hand and pulled it through his arm, then quickly whisked her to foyer, pausing only briefly � very brief � to thank their hostess. The carriage was retrieved in short order, aided by the look in Bathurst�s eyes that indicated that a long wait would be unhealthy to all � who could wait long for what hovered at his side?

<Teresia>

Alas his gaze gave away nothing but what she knew to be a fact, namely that Bathurst wanted to sleep with her before dawn. What should she do? she wondered. She should be saving her reputation for Blakeney, but Bathurst had been so patient thus far... it seemed almost churlish to refuse him at the final fence. As Teresia stepped up into the carriage she decided to let fate take the upper hand. It mattered little to her personally. She would make no advances, but nor would she rebuff any on Bathurst's side. Either his desire would carry him forward, or his sense of propriety would hold him back. It will be an interesting struggle to watch, she mused to herself as the carriage started with a jolt.

<Bathurst>

At last! Alone with the Marquise. Thank God! If he had to wait any longer he was certain to die of longing. He needed this and what was more is that he deserved this, after all he was her knight in shining armor. He found her and helped her begin to reestablish his life and *he* helped her to contact the Scarlet Pimpernel. Where would she be without his help? Besides, that kiss in Dover still fueled his imagination and every look since has built upon that. Even the heat of her sitting next to him was too much to bear!

As the carriage rolled forward, Bathurst closed the space between them taking her lack of protest as acquiescence. In an impulsive gesture, he cupped her chin and turned her face so that his descending lips met hers. The flavor of her kiss was driving him to madness. As he kissed her he wondered how long it would be until they reached their destination - considered the dimensions of the carriage and what might be accomplished in those narrow quarters. �You are the most perfect...� he began, but was so compelled to kiss her again that he could not finish the thought.

<Teresia>

He was almost juvenile in his desire, she thought somewhat uncharitably as she yielded to his second kiss. A strange thought flashed into her mind: am I his first? As the carriage rumbled on, she allowed him to kiss and fumble freely, but her participation was passive willingness. Her only forward move was to draw the blinds down over the carriage windows. If it must happen here, she at least wanted some guarantee of privacy.

<Bathurst>

She was not as active a participant as Bathurst was accustomed to, but she did not protest. For all of a minute he considered that the reason she did not protest was that she felt obliged to reciprocate his kindness until he felt her arm stretch languidly out and saw the shutter lower in the corner of his eye. Oh, she wanted this! Wanted it as much as he did. The thought fanned the flames of his desire.

He tested how far she was willing go and with each passive submission, Bathurst�s boldness grew. The initial kiss turned into a passionate embrace (more passionate on his part than hers), hands that had demurely rested on her arms grew bold enough to stroke and cup her soft full breasts (my god, her breast! The feel of them stiffened him to desperation!), slowly lowering her back onto the seat � kissing her. His pants were too tight and he knew that he had to bed this lovely creature or he would die of it. He broke away from her long enough to yank off his tight coat and cravat, as he did so she remained just as he left her, waiting for him to resume loving her, eyeing him from his mussed hair and blazing eyes down to the conspicuous bulge in his breeches. She was neither surprised nor startled by the physical manifestation of his desire for her, surely she felt the same.

As his lips descended to meet hers, one hand fumbled through layers of petticoats to find the ribbon that held her stays in place, his hand skimming over velvety flesh, until he found the ribbon tugged it loose. As he fumbled to free himself, dearest Teresia repositioned herself to make herself more comfortable and give him better access. God was he stiff! He waded through the yards of material to impale his darling angel. It was the greatest experience of his life.

<Andrew>

She did not know his name? Andrew blinked in surprise. Well, of course she didn't know his name - how could he have overlooked that? He was picturing himself proposing marriage (and dreaming of a wedding night) while she didn't know his name.

"Well," he said, somewhat abashed, "we must rectify that immediately."

He looked around distractedly, until he recognised Lady Shipwash across the room, in conversation with a dowdy ancient swathed in a black mantilla.

"Attend," he called over his shoulder to Suzanne and he launched himself in that direction.

"... damn republicans and especially that damnable, contemptible Georges Jacques Danton!" The French widow was not shy about voicing her opinions. Lady Shipwash shook her head, in shock or sympathy, who could say which? She turned to Andrew with a smile (did he only imagine it was a grateful smile?) and said, "Sir Andrew, you haven't come to tell me you're leaving, I hope?"

"No madam; I have to say this is the most spectacular evening - you've outdone yourself!"

Her grin widened and she glowed as Andrew took her hand and kissed it.

"I take such pleasure in seeing young people enjoy themselves." She radiated her delight. Andrew drew quickly to the point, by saying, "You can make me the happiest man in all England, Lady Shipwash, if you will do me the honour of introducing me to this charming young �migr�."

Lady Shipwash looked beyond Andrew (who had fully absorbed her attention; had Andrew been made of gingerbread, his life would already be over) and she scrutinised the French blonde.

"Now don't tell me," she said slowly. "There is a, an, uh...there is a strong uh, resemblance to, uh, to your mother. Her name is uh, is uh, right here. Right on the tip of my tongue. Ah, I'm sure I remember her. It's uh..."

Andrew sighed. This could take a while, he suspected for Suzanne no more resembled the countess than a tree resembles a house.

Lady Shipwash continued to slip and stumble like a drunk midshipman trying to climb the rigging. "I knew your father, child. I knew him when Lord Shipwash was ambassador... ambassss... that's it!" The light in her eyes was incredible. Andrew began to worry about her health - could this much happiness be safe? "Ambassador du Tournai - yes! You are, uh, uh, now, what did they name that child of theirs? It wasn't Marie-Claire - that was the Marquise de Genet's daughter. Oh let me think for just a moment and I know it will come to me."

A crow of delighted laughter answered her. "Indeed you're right on all accounts, Lady Shipwash. This is Mademoiselle Suzanne du Tournai, the daughter of the former Ambassador to England, Henri, the Count du Tournai." He rested a shoulder and elbow against the newel post, staring at her cheerfully.

Lady Shipwash's silvering hair shook as she straightened herself. "Exactly so," she said with mock severity. "Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, I would like to introduce my dear friend, Comte Henri du Tournai's only daughter - only surviving daughter - Mademoiselle Suzanne."

Andrew bowed over Suzanne's hand with more gratitude than any introduction warranted.

"I am charmed beyond words, Miss du Tournai to make your acquaintance."

Lady Shipwash looked sublimely pleased that she'd accomplished that much so well. She extended a hand and placed it on Suzanne's shoulder.

"You have caught the eye of this young rascal - Sir Andrew Ffoulkes - who is the son of good, honest people, despite the misfortune of being related to Lady Sutherland who is a too rich and too opinionated by half. I beg you to forgive him that. None of us can chose our relatives and perhaps she will be better in future. She, too, resided in France and has been treated cruelly."

Andrew had the good grace to look a little chastened at this, although he had never before felt any misfortune in being related to the Sutherlands.

"Thank you, Lady Shipwash. I am deeply grateful for your assistance." Then, turning back to Suzanne, he asked, "Well, little minx, will you dance with me?"

<Teresia>

The carriage jolted and jostled through the empty streets and Teresia felt every movement through her spine as she lay there in smouldering submission. She wondered what he would be like when the actual moment came? Her hopes weren't high. In the Spaniard's experience, the more a man made love to suit his own pleasure, the less it aroused her senses... and Bathurst was certainly having things his own way that night. It was the lot of her profession to create the illusion of attraction where none existed and to make love with a passion she could not feel. This was a business transaction, nothing more. Bathurst had helped her because he wanted to get inside her petticoats and she was merely keeping her end of the bargain. As his advances grew stronger, she waited patiently for it all to be over. Then she would have to pour golden lies of his prowess into Bathurst's receptive ears. She would tell him how no man had carried her to such dizzy heights before, when in truth no man, including Bathurst, had ever taken the exotic Teresia Cabarrus beyond the lowest foothills of desire.

<Bathurst>

The coachman probably wondered why the road had seemed bumpier than on their trip to Shipwash, Bathurst thought, grinning in satisfaction as he held Teresia in his arms. Teresia... She had caught the eye of every man at that party, but *he* was the one she had laid with. He had clearly done something right in life to have earned the honor of Teresia�s heart. What a woman! �You are simply the most exquisite being I�ve ever known in my life,� he whispered into her ear, as he admired a rosy cheek.

The carriage began to slow and Bathurst heard the horse�s hooves clatter on paved stones, they were entering London. Teresia moved abruptly to tidy her appearance, readjusting her stays and straightening her skirts. �I hope you are not too anxious to leave my company,� Bathurst remarked, hoping to continue this night of loving on into the morning.

<Teresia>

"Of course not, carino!" she lied, "but there are appearances to be maintained." Then, thinking that maybe she had upset her tame gentleman, she leaned towards him and wiped her lipstick from the corner of his mouth with her thumb, turning it into a tender caress. Not desiring to lead Bathurst on, Teresia turned back to straightening her own attire. Using a small mirror to tidy her rouge, she observed Bathurst's reaction to her placating advance in the reflection of the glass.

<Bathurst>

Her affectionate gesture touched his heart. Oh, she had bewitched him! He could think of no greater bliss than to spend the night in the lady�s tender arms, but the Marquise�s every manner indicated that she was ready to take her leave of him. For a moment he wondered if she found his loving unsatisfying, then abruptly shook his head to dismiss the thought � unconceivable! Perhaps he had been too rough on her and she, brave soul that she was, would not complain if he had hurt her.

�You�ve had a long night, dearest, so I shall not impose my company beyond bidding you good evening.� It took a lot out of him to give up her company now, but there was the lady to consider. �But I ask that you permit me to call on you on the morrow.�

<Suzanne>

Andrew. Suzanne wondered what his name meant. She remembered the moment she discovered that her first name had a meaning and she was fascinated. Marguerite meant `pearl' while Suzanne meant `lily' and her father, Henri, his name meant `ruler of the home'. Several Christmases ago, before things had gotten dangerous in Paris, her father had given her a book full of surnames, their country of origin, and various meanings. She'd had to leave it behind.

She looked to Ffoulkes and found his expression incomprehensible. If he had been a mirror, Suzanne would have been sure her reflection would have fainted dead away for all the concern that was emanating from his eyes. Those eyes, deep and blue as the Atlantic, seemed full of swells at the moment and Suzanne could feel herself being pulled under but was quickly rescued from the current by the weight of his hand on hers.

"I am charmed beyond words, Miss du Tournai to make your acquaintance."

"Moi aussi." She replied softly, dipping into a curtsey. Lady Shipwash, with a somewhat severe look on her face, then took Suzanne by the shoulder and leaned in.

"You have caught the eye of this young rascal - Sir Andrew Ffoulkes � who is the son of good, honest people," Suzanne nodded at this, "despite the misfortune of being related to Lady Sutherland who is a too rich and too opinionated by half. I beg you to forgive him that. None of us can choose our relatives and perhaps she will be better in future. She, too, resided in France and has been treated cruelly." She looked to Andrew, who appeared quite taken aback by this statement, and drew her eyes back to Lady Shipwash.

"I sank you, Madame." She said before curtseying again. Andrew interjected, before the discussion of his relates carried on. "Thank you, Lady Shipwash. I am deeply grateful for your assistance."

"Well, little minx, will you dance with me?" Suzanne nodded eagerly.

"Of course! I `ave been looking fo'ward to danzing wis you all evening!" She grinned and accepted the hand extended to her and followed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes to the dance floor.

<Teresia>

Madre de Dios, but he was becoming tiresome. Didn't he understand the rules? She was intending to go to Blakeney Manor in the morning and did not want Bathurst cramping her style. Then again, he'd been useful once and may be so again. "Tomorrow evening," she agreed, stepping out of the carriage, "Not before 8 o'clock." Bathurst would be her failsafe... her plan B, should she require it.

<Bathurst>

Bathurst watched Teresia as she walked down the path that lead to the door, admiring her shapely figure and the swishing skirt as she walked. To think he had just make love to her and tomorrow held the promise of similar pleasurable pastimes.

�Sir?� Cole cleared his throat noisily, ruining the inappropriate thoughts running through Bathurst�s head.

�Home. I have an early morning.� There was much to be done before his little t�te-�-t�te with Teresia. He would have to be fitted and hired sempstresses to attend to the deficiencies in Teresia�s wardrobe, then there was... and it struck him like a slap across the face.

He had forgotten all about his colleagues at the party. By now they had probably left and whatever damage had been done. Blast it all! He would have make inquiries in the morning for that as well.

Bathurst leaned his head back against the back of the coach and reflected on his memorable night.

<Andrew>

The wine had flowed freely all night and many of the guests were showing the effects of overindulgance. More than one gallant was crumpled and snoring in a chair. A few of the women's coiffeurs were more down than up and here and there a face showed the effects of too much kissing in alcoves with lip rouge smeared on cheeks and chins. Andrew gazed into Mademoiselle du Tournai's glowing eyes and felt his heart race. No one had been kissing her - that much was certain - as was her attraction to him. Her hand trembled in his and her cheeks were ruby with excitement. How marvellous it was to dance attendance on virgins who could not dissemble or cheat. Suzanne couldn't hide her interest or her innocence - her eyes betrayed her both ways.

At the door to the ballroom Andrew and Suzanne came face to face with Miss Dunstable, the last woman he'd taken to bed. She was wearing spangled ribbons in her wonderful hair and bronze lace on her bodice - cut far too low as usual. He became stiffly aware of her and quickly bowed a greeting.

"Delightful to see you, Miss Dunstable - Frightful weather we're having, yes? - Shall we see you at Newmarket for the Saturday races? - Do say hello if you go." The words tumbled out in a single breath and Andrew yanked Suzanne past Sarah and onto the dance floor.

"Old girlfriend," he said, somewhat breathlessly. "Broke my heart, oh, probably nine months ago. Hope she sprained her ankle dancing, heartless cat!" With that rather mangled explanation, he took Suzanne's hands and dragged her through the first measure, trying to catch his breath. Oh, brother - what a close call that had been!

He could hardly remember the - what, was it? Twenty minutes? - he'd spent with Sarah in one of Sir Percy's guestrooms during a cricket match. Certainly it had meant less than nothing to her. Sarah had been betrothed to Lord Wexford's son until Wexford's daughter had discovered Sarah with Lord Hastings in the bushes during a flower show. Until then it had been merely whispered that Miss Dunstable was easy... now she had her way with any buck she chose; but while this made her immeasurably popular with the young men, she would be a pariah to a decent woman like Mademoiselle du Tournai. Andrew knew Suzanne wouldn't want to hear that her lover had tom-catted around a large percentage of the ton's available women before settling down with her. Damn his wild past. Damn his rakehell reputation.

Suzanne glided through the measures with unsurpassed grace and her perfect complexion glowed in the candlelight. If only he could kiss her, he would die happy. It would have to be a very chaste kiss... this was one girl he would have to keep his hands off of. He would have to wait until the wedding night... how long must he know her before he could make a decent proposal? How long would the engagement have to play out? Could he endure facing her across the parlour with the countess's beady eyes drilling into his thoughts while he kept his hands occupied with backgammon, or crumpets and tea? Could he endure hours of listening to her father rail against the revolutionaries while the banns were posted and Suzanne's bridal veil was hemmed?

Tomorrow morning he would ride to the house du Tournai was renting and speak... no; tomorrow he was to be in Dover, at the Fisherman's Rest. Boarding Daydream. Rushing to Paris to rescue Armand - no, to rescue Percy, acting as bait to flush out Armand. Damn Chauvelin! Damn him and curse fate!

Andrew missed a turn and stepped on Lady Williston's toes. She frowned at him as she twirled away, then jabbed him sharply in the ribs with her elbow on the return. He had to attend to what he was doing. Suzanne returned to his arms - it was the final movement. He squeezed her close and whispered, "I love you," into her ear before the music stopped and they had to separate. She was breathless and very red - she'd heard him. She'd understood. They stood alone together in the centre of the dance floor, looking at each other as if no one else existed. Then, someone began to clap. The clapping was taken up by a second, and a third - and then everyone was applauding. Suzanne looked bewildered. Andrew grinned broadly, took her hand and swept into a deep bow. Let her follow his lead, he thought, and they would make a hasty retreat.

He had to find Tony - god, was Tony still at the party? Andrew had to pass on Percy's message, then he had to get on the road to Dover. The night was more than half over - he would have to drive all night and even then it would be a race to make the tide. But first - he was determined to kiss Suzanne du Tournai before he left Shipwash manor. He would give her a kiss to remember him by!

<Hastings>

After a hurried search of Shipwash�s manor and brief conversations with members of the league he found (MacKensie, Stowesmarries, Fanshaw, and Holte) suggesting them prepare for eminent excursion, Hastings discovered a rather perturbed Lord Tony beating a devil�s tattoo on a table in the library. He appeared vex and irritable, eyes snapping on Hastings as he entered � evidently his night had followed suit with everyone else Hastings had encountered. Not wishing to be pulled into anymore drama, Hasting made the interview brief, relating what Andrew had told him, and answering a few brief questions before parting company.

The evenings events were wearing on him as he wandered from room to room, saluting old friends, examining the physics of a swaying skirt as a particularly adorable young thing passed fluttering her eyelashes and giggling as he rewarded her a winning smile... god, he�d been ever so good tonight especially when he so longed to draw one of these beauties upstairs and put some fresh color in her cheeks.

He stopped within the room of the ballroom � half in, half out � trying to observe the dancers without being pulled into a dance. Andrew was amongst them, indulging himself in the delightful company of the Compte du Tournai�s daughter. There was an interesting chit! Not his type at all. Too skinny. She had bewitched a few of her rescuers: Bathurst (before the Spaniard claimed all his attention), Ffoulkes, who couldn�t take his eyes off her, even Dewhurst seemed to eye her with some interest. However he didn�t know what to make of her. He�d seen her wandering boldly through the Fisherman�s Rest� looking for what? She gave the appearance of innocence, but then again wasn�t acting the part of an ing�nue one of the more effective tools of his trade. He had had enough of manipulative women. Experienced women had their advantages but he had no intention to losing his heart to one� again.

Twirling his quizzing glass thoughtfully, he watched Andrew and Suzanne twirl about, their attraction for each other apparent any with eyes to see. If his earlier impression of Suzanne was true, then the couple was perfectly match, however if she was as virtuous as she claimed then she was on the road to a heart break. His reflections were interrupted by a soft impact against his thigh, he turned to see Sarah Dunstable�s large hazel eyes gazing up into his � her position offering him a delicious view of her snowy white breasts. The very jade that had only just broken his heart and set up the strife between Bathurst and himself and nearly a duel with Wexford�s pimply son.

�Pardon me, my lord Hastings,� her sultry voice an allure of it�s own, her eyes raking over him. �I must not have been looking where I was going... but I must admit I find it strange to find you unaccompanied...� An invitation if ever he heard one. But then he�d wager that she�d given out quite a number of invitations this evening � the little minx. To think he�d lost his heart to this alley cat. Her eyes flickered to the staircase and back to his eyes. �We must correct that.�

Hastings conquered his first impulse to follow her upstairs and remind her of that afternoon in the bushes � only with fewer branches poking in the wrong places. But he was not going to give her the chance to break his heart afresh. Even as he looked her over, he saw the signs of her earlier encounters that evening. Probably ripe with the stench of the last man she�d laid with.

�I am honored, Miss Dunstable, but I�d wager you�ve been enough company this evening,� he said stiffly. In a second her eyes were blazing, and in the next he was watching her stomp away. One would think she�d never heard �no�. His refusal would cost him. He had gone without for a good couple of weeks, while back and forth across the channel, if he didn�t get lucky soon he�d die of it.

<Suzanne>

"I love you." Three simple words that were the last she had expected to hear whispered to her but it seemed as though the entire room had overheard Sir Andrew. The applause seemed deafening and Suzanne had no idea what to do. She wished to bury her head so she wouldn't have to witness the sight. She curtseyed in response to the bow Andrew made before her, the motions all mechanical as her mind whirled about. She had felt this way when she had been drunk but barely more than a sip of champagne had passed her lips that night. Suddenly, her hand was in his and he was leading her away from the ballroom. She couldn't see where they were headed, nor did she care. The only thing that existed in that moment was his oath. "I love you." Perhaps all surprises were not as horrible as she had thought them.

<Andrew>

Shipwash Manor boasted deeply recessed windows, fifteen feet high. Andrew led Suzanne to the window at the end of the corridor, pushing her up against the cold, black glass. The heavy, velvet portiere provided a measure of privacy - oh, anyone who looked could make out his boots and a froth of her petticoats, but no one could ascertain their identities from those clues alone.

"It is my sincere intention to court you, mademoiselle. I shall dance attendance on you wherever you go ... well, that is, when I return. Unfortunately, I have been called away. I must leave tonight. Immediately. I'm to Dover, sailing with the tide. There is another innocent in danger - you know." Andrew thought it couldn't hurt to spice up the truth a little (Armand was an innocent, after all) and he felt a tiny tremor at her terrified gasp. Impulsively, he reached for her hand. Took it. Raised it to his cheek and stroked her silky palm against his skin.

"I can't say how long I shall be away and I'm only breaking the code of silence - the chief demands silence - so you understand, dearest, that I haven't abandoned you. I shall think about you all day and dream about you every night - I shall hardly sleep at all for thinking of you." He tugged the tiny palm to his lips and kissed it.

"You have become everything to me, and it is that which makes me bold enough to beg you, please, do not consider anyone else in my absence." He closed his eyes and kissed the soft hillock beneath her thumb until he felt her pulse throb in her wrist. Suzanne slumped against the window as if he'd drained the feeling from her legs. He pulled her into his arms. "You are too perfect for words. So innocent. So wonderful. Please wait for me to return. I shall speak to your father as soon as I set foot in London. Will you wait for me?"

She buried her face against his coat as if she couldn't bear to look at him - he felt the length of her against his long lean body and he understood. He had overwhelmed her, she hadn't expected him to declare himself on their - what? - their third meeting? He cupped her chin so he could tilt her face up to his, and even in the shadow of the portiere he could make out the deep blush on her cheeks.

"Let me kiss you, Suzanne. Darling, you must let me!"

He didn't wait for her to agree; he pressed his lips against hers and waited for a moment for her to pull away. She didn't. Then, he pulled her tighter into his arms and the embrace became explosive and Andrew forgot that he'd intended this to be a chaste kiss.

Suzanne made a little sound deep in her throat that sent Andrew over the edge of good intentions soaring into the heights of passion. He twined his tongue with hers, he shifted his weight and felt the heat of her breasts burning against his shirt. Her lips clung to his and Andrew's hand wandered from her waist upward to her gauze-covered nipples. If he tugged at her lacy fichu, would he uncover them entirely? He cupped the soft mound with his hand and felt her swoon in his arms.

When at last he tore his lips from hers, Suzanne's arms slid from around his neck and a lock of his hair dropped onto his shoulder. She'd had her fingers twined in his hair - as if she'd wanted to pull herself even closer to him.

She wanted him - he knew the signs. He could have her now if he wanted her, and he did. But she was more than a quick tumble in a corner; he would wait. She would never know how much he wished it were otherwise, but there was no other way in which he might show her that he saw her as different from every other girl he'd kissed. He would wait.

They stood staring into each other's eyes, surprised at the emotions that had erupted with that devastating embrace. Andrew observed her heaving shoulders, her heaving breasts. Her breathing was as ragged as his. He was watching her closely - too closely - gauging her reactions. Sometimes innocent girls changed their minds after a particularly loving kiss and slapped his face. Suzanne's big eyes filled her face and her lips trembled. Andrew was satisfied.

"Unless I miss my guess, dearest, I suspect you will be waiting for me. You can be certain I shall return for more of that." He strode away quickly; she'd never know how much he wanted to turn around, to return to her and continue what he'd started. He could kick himself all the way to Dover, but if he didn't leave immediately there would be more than Sir Percy's life to be lost.

<Suzanne>

Dear God in heaven. Suzanne pressed her fingertips to her lips, now bright red and burning from their recent activities, and tried to figure out how the past few minutes had occurred. She nearly stepped out from behind her velvet encased hiding place when she realized exactly what was exposed and what was misplaced on her persons. She turned back to the windowpane and carefully rearranged her fischu and neckline. Her breast was red from Andrews massaging and her nipples were hard. What strange sensations! She'd never felt anything like that before. Everything in her felt full� heavy and laden with blood yet she could feel it coursing through her at an alarming rate.

Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror with a knowing gaze. He loved her. It was so simple and so pure. If she did not believe him in the ballroom, surely the last minute they had spent in each other's arms was enough to prove it! She carefully stepped from the behind the curtain and walked down the corridor back to the hubbub. Her father found her almost immediately and took Suzanne to their carriage where her mother was waiting. Thank God it was open or she might have burnt up!

She found herself thinking about the evening. It was a short ride to their rented home and Suzanne knew she would be in her bed very soon. Had she really run into all of those people from her past? Chauvelin, Percy and Marguerite� Marguerite! Oh le bon Dieu! She'd nearly forgotten she was supposed to meet her darling friend at Richmond later that day! Oh, their conversation had been so forced at the ball, surely alone they could speak as they used to. And hadn't Marguerite told her to wear a specific dress? That was curious of her indeed but Suzanne could see that there was a reason she had made such a request. Now� what had she said? Trying to clear her mind of her amorous meeting with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes long enough to remember her conversation with Marguerite was proving to be a difficult past. Now� the blue frock and which cloak? She worked the conversation over and over in her head but the details remained fuzzy. Andrew was at the forefront of her mind and every thought was tinged with the memory of him. She could still smell his cologne on her fischu. The carriage rumbled up the cobblestones to their home and the Comte carefully helped his daughter first, then his wife to the ground. He kisses his daughter's cheek and sent her into the house and up to her room.

Now� how to clear my head.' Suzanne thought to herself. "I'll write him a letter!" She said aloud, making her way to the small writing desk that faced the window. She withdrew a piece of paper and wrote straight for nearly a half an hour. Finally, she folded the letter and put her pen to rest, certain that she would want to amend it before insuring it's delivery to Monsieur Ffoulkes.

It took her maid ten minutes to remove all her garments and Suzanne carefully slipped the fischu away from her so that it would not be laundered. The red, telltale marks of her earlier activities had all faded except her lips, which nearly glowed. She grinned at herself in the mirror and climbed into her warm bed, hoping to sleep for a few hours before heading to Richmond.

This thread is continued from In the Stables

This thread continues in Richmond, On the Road to Perdition, and The Evidence

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