Sir Philip Glynde had no business in France. Since this whole revolution mess began, he dreaded going there. Today, however, he didn't care. He was happy. Only one thought on his mind kept him in this cursed country another day. Jacqueline. His beautiful little Jacqueline de la Fontaine. She was his life these days, his reason to bother living at all.

Life had become dreadfully dull the past few years. Business was going well, his estates were returning to their former, profitable status, money was thickly lining his pockets, his new title kept him in England when he wasn't looking after his establishments elsewhere, and he was dreadfully bored. The only thing that kept him entertained these days was the company of his new mistress, and corresponding with his old friend the Marquis de la Fontaine, and his wife.

Philip felt like a child at Christmas every time he received a letter from Gaston, promising himself at each of these occassions to visit, soon. The Marquise was nothing less than a dear sister to him, and as such he missed her company, terribly. The last message he received, however, made his heart skip. It contained a note from Jacqueline. Some of the letters were backwards, and it was terribly misspelled, but the little darling had invited him to Paris for her birthday celebration. Philip hadn't seen his god-daughter since her Christening.

The baronet had received a miniature of the little lady but last week. He hadn't realized how much time had passed since his last visit, until he saw the girl gazing back at him. The artist had captured the sparkle of keen intelligence in her large, amber eyes. Curls of golden-brown hair framed her little smiling face that was anything but short on dimples. Jacqueline looked so very different than the baby he had held in his arms as she was given the name he was allowed to choose for her so long ago, but he saw the infant, still, in the girl depicted in the portrait. Philip had immediately fallen in love with this child. From the second the baby's fierce grip nearly pulled out his hair as she cooed, his heart was hers. She would have everything she could ever want of him, everything he had not been given growing up - her parents would spoil her rotten, he knew, but Philip would pick up where they left off.

Looking at the tiny portrait, the baronet had let out a groan. "But I know nothing about little girls!" The child's grandmother had openly laughed at him, and suggested that a doll would be a good place to start. Anna had assured him that Jacqueline would tell him of anything else her little heart desired. The baronet had immediately visited three different shops, dragging his valet along, in persuit of the prettiest, most expensive doll in London. Chilton and his master, on a quest for a doll - they must have looked a pair. Philip chuckled at the memory. His precious gift securely tucked under an arm, he made his way through the streets of Paris.

Impatient to get to his destination, he decided to dismount, and walk his horse through the crowded square as a short-cut. The revolution was in full swing, as was Madame Guillotine. Philip had heard of the ghastly contraption that had been set up in the city, but he hadn't yet layed eyes on it. He stood for a moment, spellbound at the horror as it came into view. It was erected on a platform so the mob that currently milled in the square could see its bloody performance. The blade was stained a crusty, dark red...Philip flinched involuntarily as it was released, and gravity took its terrible toll on the poor soul beneath. The crowd cheered, and the baronet's stomach roiled in disgust at the display, making him quite glad to have skipped breakfast that morning. The blade was pulled aloft once more. Philip blinked, then walked on, but he could not shake a feeling of dread as he continued towards his destination to surprise Jacqueline.

His progress was slow, the cheering crowd seeming to grow in front of him in the square. He noticed that faintly there was a name announced before each new fatal thunk of the blade. As he walked, he made an effort to hear the names of the poor devils in a silent show of respect.

"... de St-Cyr." swing The name sounded familiar. Frowning, Philip walked on.

"... St-Cyr." slice He closed his eyes for a moment.

"...de la Fontaine" chop His step faltered. WHAT?!

"Marquise Marianne de la Fontaine" Philip spun around just in time to see the blade fall on his dear friend Gaston's wife, a woman he had spent his childhood with, one he considered his sister.

Screaming of a small child pierced the cheers of the crowd interrupting the dumbfounded railings of his brain. The baronet stared in horror at the center of what was called Place Greve. No!!! "Jacqueline de la Fontaine" With another sharp drop, the terrified screams were silenced.

Philip's gift fell to the ground, the porcelain head of the prettiest doll London had to offer a little girl shattered into a million pieces on the stone floor. The baronet fell to his knees, his breath expelling all at once, staring, unseeing at the instrument of death as another noble met his doom. Another...another...Nobody paid him any attention as cheering accompanied every downward move of the blade. His horse, free to roam now, as the reins had been all but forgotten, tapped an impatient hoof on the cobblestones beside its master, ignored.

A heavy hand dropped on Philip's shoulder. He was sure one of those uniformed guards had come to escort him up to meet Madame Gilloutine as well. His gaze fell to the shards of what was to be Jacqueline's favorite toy. Philip steeled himself. He was ready. When he got to his feet, and turned, however, it was not the sneering face of a revolutionary looking back at him, but the grave visage of Henshaw, one Sir Percy Blakeney's own footman. Was he here to cheer, too? The sorrow in the man's eyes belied the sympathy he felt.

Philip wanted to shout, scream, kill - himself if necessary - anything just to bring that tiny little creature back. She had been innocent. Whatever crimes were punished in this god-forsaken square, Jacqueline was innocent! Nobody could deny it. The child was only four years of age. The entire range of emotion in human capability, and some beyond all understanding, passed over Philip's features, as he stared into the eyes of Blakeney's man. Henshaw's gaze fell to the baronet's knees, and Philip's followed. His trousers were bloodied where he had fallen onto the broken pieces of porcelain that had been the doll's head. He didn't care. He was numb.

Not feeling a damn thing, Philip shrugged off the hand, and walked away. Away from the square, away from Henshaw, away from the pain he no longer felt, away from the noise of the crowd. He had no clue where his new destination lay, and he cared naught to learn it. Philip was desperate to walk away from the terrified screams that still echoed in his ears...desperate to walk away from life, and its cruel sense of humor...followed by his destrier, reins dragging as the loyal beast walked a few paces behind the seemingly broken man.

A broken man was found sitting on a stoop by a footman, some ten miles outside of Paris. Philip didn't answer when asked after his welfare. He didn't even look up. Finally a young lady ventured outside, he noticed her out of the corner of his eye. The servants were looking to her for guidance on whether to toss the tattered shadow of a man into the gutter, leave him be, or take him in. She gave no answer.

Philip was nearly bowled over by his destrier. Lucifer had shown great patience throughout the day, but the beast was quite fed up with his master. He had found good grazing, but the man walked on. He had found some water, but the man walked on. He had found a pretty mare in a pasture, in season, but the man walked on. When finally his master set to rest outside this house, the horse had found it safe to leave him and explore the grounds. Lucifer had startled a gardner by drinking out of the fountain, dined on some interesting-looking flowers in the gardens behind the house, then returned to find Philip still where he'd been left. Enough was enough.

The man looked up for the first time in hours into the large liquid, black eyes of his mount. Lucifer nickered softly in his face. Philip nodded, almost automatically reaching up to stroke and soothe the animal. Someone who looked as though he could be a stablemaster approached, slowly, weary of the huge beast, and the man who commanded it. Philip picked up the reins, patted his horse lightly between the eyes, and handed them over. The animal deserved a good rest, and some proper feed. Lucifer followed the stablemaster, docile as a lamb. Philip watched him go.

A small hand rested on his shoulder, and Philip found himself looking into a pair of lovely green eyes. The young lady took his hand in hers, and spoke to him in French. He wasn't listening. He just stared. After a few moments, not releasing his hand, she said something to the footmen who seemed to disappear, then stooped down, so they were at the same level. "Cava, monsieur?" He seemed to hear her for the first time. She had whispered to him. A lovely sound. He shook his head, no. He was not well.

She searched his face a moment more, then seemed to come to a decision. She nodded, stood, and pulled both his hands indicating for him to get up as well. "Venez, sil-vous-plait, monsieur." He slowly rose, for the first time that day feeling a strange sharp pain in his knees. Philip nearly buckled, and tumbled down the stairs he'd been resting on, but the lady had already draped his arm around her to steady him. She was tiny. But there was a surprising strength in her. A footman came to Philip's aid, following the example of his mistress, and he came inside, as she had bid.

Philip did not remember how he got there. He hardly remembered his own name. The young baronet found himself sitting in his shirt by a fireplace that wasn't his, staring down at a little brunette head as its owner sat unceremoniously on the floor in front of him, seeing to repairing the damage to his knees. She was pulling sharp things - glass? No, porcelain - out of his flesh. Every movement stung, but Philip didn't flinch. He just stared down at the curls, feeling her breath on his bare legs, as she gently blew across his wounds to soothe the sting of the cleansing solution, as one would with a child who'd scraped his knee. For a moment he felt as though it was decades ago, and he was in the stables, hiccoughing with tears streaming down his face at 3 years of age, a nail just having been pulled from his shin - Mary-Anne, Chilton's cousin, trying to soothe the child after cleaning the wound just as the lady at his feet was doing now. 'Marianne de la Fontaine', the memory of what had happened that day hit him like a cannonball. "Jacqueline..." he breathed.

The figure at his feet looked up, confused. He was reaching for the miniature in his coat-pocket. He had to see her as she was before today. Philip could not live with the image of his god-daughter's severed head being how she was remembered. But he wasn't wearing his coat. Before he could jump up, and demand the picture, the lady at his feet reached up. In the palm of her hand, facing him, smiled Jacqueline. He looked into the woman's eyes, a tear rolled down her cheek. She understood. "Jacqueline...la fille de Marianne..?" She asked after the child, already knowing what his answer would be.

"Morte....Marianne et Gaston, aussi" Philip reached down, touching the side of her face, lifting the single tear away with the knuckle of a finger.

"Je m'appelle... Danielle Tremaine." She whispered.

"Je suis Phillipe." he answered.

Danielle reached up her other hand, and Philip took it, automatically bringing it to his lips in response to the introduction. Her lip quivered with surpressed emotion. Who was this girl, bearing the late Marquis's last name? Philip didn't care. She knew Mary-Anne, and the child. He gently tugged her hand, drawing Danielle into his arms, where she promptly buried her head in the crook of his neck, and released what had been held back. She knew. He just held her. Closing his eyes, and thinking of his god-daughter - the baby that had laughed and cooed as she yanked fistfulls of his hair - he held improperly close the small frame of the strange woman who was crying the tears he could not.

A child was screaming in sheer terror, Philip could not move. His knees were nailed to the floor. The baronet ripped at his flesh until he was free. Pain stinging every fiber, he hobbled toward the child strapped to the guillotine. She shrieked, he was almost there. Philip tripped, and reached out to steady himself. His hold moved, however, and the blade was released. The girl screamed as he looked on in horror. The child was silenced. He'd been so close. Philip stared at his hand, dripping with blood, still tightly gripping the lever...Oh God! What had he done?!

The man's eyes opened with a start. Drenched in cold sweat, his pulse pounding in his ears. A dream.

Someone moved in his arms. Philip looked down at the curls of the lady who had so sweetly patched up his wounds. Who was she? Danielle Tremaine. All the Tremaines he knew were dead. Gaston...Mary-Anne...he closed his eyes...Jacqueline. Wait. Gaston had cousins. But they were male. Philip frowned. Could she possibly have been his cousin's wife? How did she escape the disease that killed the previous Marquis and his brother, without a single mark? She sighed, and squeezed him in her sleep. She must be exhausted. How did she escape the execution? Philip looked down at her, gently moving a strand of curls out of the sleeping woman's face. It was the same color as Jacqueline's...

The baronet stared into the fireplace. Dying embers gave the room a strange, hellish glow. How had he found his way back to the de la Fontaine's country manor? He had only been here once. Gaston's cousin had held a house-party here, which Philip had attended. It was one of the last parties before Henry contracted the horrible disease that had taken many with him - the pox. Philip remembered, because it was the same time as the little one's Christening. The Marquis had been engaged to be married... Philip looked at the sleeping form of the young woman once more. But she couldn't now be more than ten-and-seven?! He frowned. No matter. If she was the late Marquis' widow, she was in danger. It would not be long before they came to seize the de la Fontaine's property. If they found her here, she could soon meet Madame Guillotine as well. Philip could not let that happen!

He gently extracted himself from the lady's grasp, and hoisted her small frame into his arms. His first attempt to rise to his feet almost had him shouting with the pain in his legs. Philip had forgotten about his wounds. They were all the worse for the exercise he had inflicted upon them. Taking a deep breath, and biting back the agony that shot through his limbs, he slowly made his way to the settee just a few steps away, placing his slumbering burden upon it. A decorative blanket that had been slung across the back, was soon draped over the woman, to keep the chill from her.

Remembering that Gaston had been only a bit slighter than him, Philip went to find something suitable to replace his torn trousers. After a bit of searching, he discovered his friend's rooms, and some clothing that would do. It was a might tighter in some places, looser in others, but he could not be bothered with details now. They had to leave this place. If he stayed, there would be no saving the young lady's reputation. If she stayed, there might be no saving her neck. He had to make sure Danielle got away safely, and soon. He had to return to England. Chilton and Anna deserved to know of their kin's untimely demise...

Ready to move everyone and everything out of the house now, and send them on their way to Austria, Philip stood, staring at the sleeping form of Danielle Tremaine. He almost could not bring himself to wake her. He looked one last time at the miniature of Jacqueline. Philip sighed, seating himself next to Danielle. He gently traced his fingers along the side of the sleeping woman's face. She yielded a smile in her dreams. "Madame" He whispered, repeating the motion. She sighed. "Danielle," he whispered more urgently. Her eyes opened to utter confusion. Philip placed the miniature in her hand, holding it there for a moment. This might well be the last he'd see of this lady. For the first time he noted how truely beautiful she was. "I must go." She blinked sleepily. "Leave this place. Go to Austria. You're not safe here." He squeezed her hand in both of his, holding the miniature.

"Who are you, monsieur Phillipe?"

He shook his head. "There's no time." When her other hand came to rest on his, he raised it to his lips. "Please, Danielle, you must trust me. Leave France now."

Philip checked that the wheels of the wagon would hold for the rough ride ahead. The best horses had been picked from the stables to work, the others in tow. The late Marquis's decorated carriage would remain behind, as would the phaeton. Philip had insisted Danielle wear some of her maid's attire, so she would not be recognized as an aristo. The night was spent packing everything dear to her that could be removed from the manor. Thankfully that wasn't more than one wagon could hold.

Philip would escort her as far as the border. She would be safe as soon as she left this blasted country, he was sure. Then he would be free to go back to England. He sighed, England. Philip did not look forward to sharing what he had witnessed but yesterday. The baronet would deliver his news. Beyond that, he could not bear to think of living at all...

Lucifer stood next to the wagon, sidling impatiently, expressing the feelings of the man now settling into the saddle. Philip was about to signal to go, when a movement caught his attention. Lucifer's ears perked up. The seasoned warcharger was looking towards the valley. Philip followed his mount's eyes, and rose in the saddle, frowning, trying to make out what the beast heard.

A small cloud of dust was slowly moving towards the manor. His frown deepened. Now what? Turning to look at Danielle, he sighed. "It seems we have to part company sooner than expected, madame." Philip left no room for protest, issuing instructions. He could still give her a chance to get away. "Give no one your true name. If you can avoid it, speak to no one until you reach the border." He waited for a small nod, before continuing. "Do not move, do not even breathe, until you hear the signal. Shots fired will send you on your way east as fast as the horses can take you. Until then, you do nothing. Understand?" She nodded. "Don't look back."

So the baronet turned his back on the wagon containing the lady, and urged his mount to the edge, looking down on the valley. Much as he thought, he counted about a dozen of the uniformed bastards coming to loot the place in the name of their new government. Philip gave his mount an affectionate pat.

The horse reared, pawing the air in front of him. For good measure, the beast even threw in a loud, otherworldy whinney. Philip breathed deeply, turning his mount towards the newcomers, and sped down to meet them. When it looked as though he were about to collide with them, he drew the late Marquis's sword, shouting "Long live the king of France!!!" He easily sliced off the head of the closest rider with the momentum, then sped off due west, willing the remainder to follow. As expected, they were immediately in hot persuit of the madman. Shots soon rang through the valley.

Philip prayed that they were too preoccupied to hear the wagon, and Danielle would get away safely. One of those bloody revolutionaries had to be smart enough to know a diversion when he saw one, Philip shook his head. With any luck it had been the one who now lay dead, he thought.

Lucifer was not meant for decoration. He was a beast by nearly all standards. The horse had earned quite a few of his own battle-scars in the service of the military man turned baronet, but it had been some time since he was allowed to run at a break-neck pace through the foliage. The baronet was nearly thrown by a low branch, trying to look behind him. In the end he just hung on as Lucifer was allowed to sprint to his heart's content. The beast was in his element, much enjoying the exercise, dodging trees, splashing through streams, circling back - they changed direction so many times in order to lose the French, Philip was sure he'd barrel straight into them at some point.

When his mount finally slowed, coming to a stop in a peaceful glen, Philip all but fell off. He dropped onto the soft mossy ground, and lay there, breathing hard, waiting for the bastards to come and finish the job. He'd give them a good fight. Philip grabbed for his sword, and failed in lifting it off the ground, totally winded. Bloody hell! This leisurely existence had really taken it out of him. He looked around, listening for a sign of his persuers. Birds chirped. How long would it take them to reach him? His head dropped back to the floor. He waited. Nothing.

Confused, Philip slowly rose, his entire body protesting at the movement. Back-tracking, it seemed like hours before he found any sign of his horse having been persued at all. Philip frowned when he came across a riderless, saddled mare, lazily grazing on fresh greens. Spotting a uniform hat near a tree with low branches, he remembered nearly having been lifted out of his saddle here. A few more steps showed him the owner of the mare. Philip crouched next to the body, and felt for a pulse. Dead. Supressing the urge to give it a swift kick, he walked on.

Mid-afternoon saw Philip watching the de la Fontaine manor from the cover of the orchards. There were more than twenty soldiers ransacking the place now. The baronet noted a fresh grave on the property. Perhaps... It didn't matter. If Danielle had gotten away, and he tried to find her, his presence would only endanger her now. Philip wished he had been able to think of a better strategy than 'kill-and-be-chased'...

He silently made his way back to the spot he had left Lucifer, far from the eyes of those bloody French bastards. Giving the estate, and Paris a wide berth, Philip made his way north. Soon, he would be in Calais, on his way home. He didn't care. It had only been two days since he had ridden in the opposite direction, happy as a sailor in a brothel to be going to Paris. Had he only known what was awaiting him there, perhaps he could have prepared. Perhaps he could have saved them. At the least, he could have joined them...