On the Road to Perdition

<Percy>

The inn windows were black, the door bolted. Did he dare bang on the door and wake the innkeeper at this hour? Percy looked at the horses, listened to them blowing and gasping. Felt the cold night air settle around him. There was a torch, its feeble flame guttering, over the stable door. Well, it was a posting inn, after all, he told himself as he slid off the box. Someone should be dozing next to the door against the surprise arrival of a delayed coach, or a courier conveying an urgent dispatch.

"Ho, there!" Percy called as he banged on the door with the heel of his hand. "Send me your stable lad and be quick about it!" He would pay a better than fair price, he decided, if they were accommodating. Cold beef. Good beer. The arabs needed to be walked and cooled down.

A peep window opened in the door. He made out a pair of cautious brown eyes. Percy took a step backward so he could be clearly seen. His suit was medium grey with silver threads; hopefully the feeble light set him aglow.

The peep window slammed and a moment later Percy heard the bar securing the door being lifted. Success!

"D'you want more, then?" the serving girl asked and Percy nodded, shoving the tankard in her direction. She poured until foam billowed at the rim. "More cheese?" She pushed the trencher toward him and he stabbed another wedge with the point of his knife.

The girl was not pretty, but she had nice hair. Smooth and shiny it was, gleaming a dull bronze. She was the inn-keeper's daughter; her father snoozed in his chair wrapped in a blanket. He'd taken one look at Sir Percy in the better light of his respectable dining room and decided he needed to remain alert, then he'd called for "Florrie" to come down. She'd been quick about it, straightening her apron as she flew down the stairs. Obviously his late arrival was not all that unusual.

The girl's bronze hair continually captured his attention - not because he found the chit worth looking at, but rather because her hair was much the same shade as Armand's.

Armand. While the lad was probably not in any imminent danger, the realisation that he was in Chauvelin's grip made the situation tight. At this moment, Percy had no plans about where to look or how to free his brother-in-law. Nor was he worried; Tony would be coming. Percy knew he could rely on Tony and he trusted the man with his life. He likewise trusted Sir Andrew, but Tony would risk his all for : for family, for blood. Andrew's bond was friendship alone and Percy wouldn't know until it was too late how far friendship may stretch. He chose Tony - for blood. He knew Tony would never waiver.

He chewed the cheese thoughtfully, sipped the tangy beer, and marked out Paris in his mind. Considered places and walls. Windows and roads. Recalled the crisp bite of an autumn night and continued chewing.

Once again it was time to assume the mask, to become some invisible French peasant who could wander in and out of any scene, play any part. He had to find Armand and quickly. Take advantage of being a step ahead of Chauvelin whom he had left at Shipwash manor lusting after Marguerite. Percy's shoulders slumped over Chauvelin's predictability . . . he mustn't dismiss the man so casually. His typical behaviour included a predictable ruthlessness that included putting a man to death as casually as ordering a meal.

The steady snoring of the innkeeper in the corner propelled Percy's thoughts through visions of late-night streets. Who walked the streets at midnight? Patrolling guards. Drunks. A whore's prospects. The homeless. The sleepless. A beggar. Percy looked at his breeches, the silver threads in the fabric glinting, and he grinned.

"Thank you, girl; that will be all. Wake your father and have him order the groom to saddle me your best horse."

Percy dropped a large gold coin on the table with a thud that disturbed the innkeeper's snoring. His eyes flicked open and his daughter leaned toward him, showing him the coin and speaking quickly while Percy paced the small parlour. He had to get to Dover before noon and meet Tony at the Fisherman's Rest. Andrew was a good lad, he would get the message to Tony.

Standing at the bow of Daydream, Andrew scanned the grey mist ahead, keenly aware that the beach was directly ahead. "Call when you see something," the captain had directed. He couldn�t see a thing � or could he? The Channel was heavy, choppy, their little craft bobbed dizzily, but Andrew, long used to the movement, was a good sailor. Staring into seeming empty greyness in the direction of the coast, he thought he made out light ahead. It was gone � no, it was back!

"Land ho!" Andrew called.

"Drop the anchor," echoed back to him from the mist that hid all but the square foot of craft directly beneath his boots. At his feet a coil of rope disappeared into nothingness. The sun had set nearly an hour before, streaking the sky with yellow and purple, then swallowed the light.

The captain shouted orders as the five of them (Tony, Percy, Hastings, Daydream�s mate and himself) clamoured over the side into the jolly boat and were lowered into the waves. He�d seated himself in the bow, grabbed a pair of oars and steadied himself against the automatic lurch of his gut as the boat found a trough between the waves and fell into it. Fingers of mist obliterated Daydream as well as the beach; looking beyond Hastings to Dewhurst, Andrew noted the fog was so heavy that he couldn�t make out Lord Tony�s _expression, only the shape of his tall hat and broad shoulders.

"We can all stay the night at Le Chat Gris," Percy said, "unless anyone has a better idea."

"I�ll be happy anywhere there is food," Andrew said, "and a dry bed." He was exhausted after his pell-mell ride to Dover, he�d snoozed a little during the crossing, but his dreams had been filled with lascivious thoughts of what he should have done to Suzanne du Tournai. Once they were married he wasn�t letting her out of bed for a week � perhaps two. He was looking forward to that aspect of marriage more than he could say.

One of Andrew�s oars scraped sand, he pulled them out of the water and dropped them into the bottom of the boat. A swell tilted them dangerously to one side; Andrew gripped the edge. He could smell the land ahead, then the bow grounded.

Andrew leaped over the side, splashing into two feet of water. He heard splashes all around him. His boots crunched on sand and ahead he could just make out the gnarled trees skirting the beach.

Percy strode up next to him. "Starved as usual, I suppose. Madame Brogard will fill our bellies with some of her incredible fish soup, then I have a few plans to run through with you before we set out tomorrow morning for Paris."

"Yes, Percy," Andrew said, hoping that the conversation wouldn�t be too long or involved; the walk up the hill to Le Chat Gris was likely to take the last of his strength. Behind them the jolly boat splashed its way back to Daydream. Andrew looked over his shoulder but could see nothing in the thick mist.

"Don�t you have any idea where Chauvelin would hide Armand? He would require a half a dozen loyal guards to have kept watch on him for these last few days."

"No, I won�t know until we reach Paris, but I�m not worried about that. As you say, more than one guard would be needed and someone will have seen something. That part of the plan is not my greatest worry � not in the least!"

Percy�s _expression is impassive and Andrew finds that unusual considering the strength of his last comment, but then Blakeney has always been something of a mystery to him.

"Hastings, be a good lad and let me have the chair next to Ffoulkes." Percy shooed his friend away, then pushed his chair close to Andrew�s. Speaking in a whisper he said, "You seem to have forgotten everything I told you. I recall quite distinctly telling you that I needed four good men two days after my departure, that I wanted only Tony to follow at once. Why have you come? Why have you brought good Hastings into danger?"

"Lord, Percy, I�m sorry! I...I have to confess that I was unable to locate Dewhurst. It was Hastings that cornered him and let him know what I said, but Hastings was ill-pleased with the thought of you travelling unprotected, and, of course, I couldn�t let you face Chauvelin with your back exposed. The man�s deuced crafty and not beneath trickery. Percy, you can�t let him lure you like a sheep into Paris alone."

"That�s precisely what I intend to do � walk sheep-like into Paris. I have to be seen and seen alone. He expects to find the Pimpernel, he knows I�m in league with him, and he wants me to point him to the leader."

"The leader...but Percy, what are you saying?"

"I�ve had most of a night to picture what might have happened. Look at it this way: Chauvelin was following someone hot-foot when we pulled the du Tournai family out of Paris. I believe he was chasing Bathurst�s Spanish beauty and inadvertently he caught sight of Armand. You were with Armand in Paris � Chauvelin must have noted it."

"I doubt that; I wasn�t strolling the boulevards. I was laid up, recovering from the sword wound." Andrew wasn�t about to confess he�d spent most of a week in a whore�s bed when he�d been left in Armand�s charge; that would do neither fellow a bit of good. "Not once did I see Chauvelin."

"Fair enough; still, I suspect he saw you." Percy�s eyes kept straying to the window as if he expected to see something through the dirty glass. His voice had gained volume; now the rest of the men could hear his conversation with Andrew.

"He certainly trailed Armand from Paris to Dover. He was either immediately ahead of Daydream, or directly behind and shipped Armand back to France on the morning tide. I doubt Armand spent twenty minutes on English soil; he was hauled right back onto the boat that brought Chauvelin across the Channel." Percy�s eyes had glazed over as if he wasn�t really aware of Andrew, as if he were following his thoughts like a trail of ribbon along the hem of a cloak. "What I don�t know is whether Chauvelin was surprised to discover du Tournai in Dover, or if he knew we had the family. Now, if you recall the events of that morning, there was a custom�s inspector who visited Fisherman�s Rest, but no one saw Chauvelin. Was the inspector genuine, or a French plant? You and I both know that Chauvelin has the coastline riddled with spies."

"So does Lord Grenville." Andrew�s mouth has lost its customary smile. His full lips are tight with concentration. He tapped a fingernail on the table and said, "We�re at war, Percy."

Tony�s ears had pricked up at this; he put his elbows on the table and concentrated on what Percy was saying.

"Which brings me to the next point � Grenville. Chauvelin is smarter than the rest of the sitting members of the damned Revolutionary Tribunal combined, and I suspect he�s figured out that Grenville is married to Tony�s sister, which provides the necessary ties to the ambassadorial offices for the league�s disbursal of �migr�s into English society."

Andrew looked puzzled � Percy�s harebrained schemes often left him in the dust, probably because he couldn�t believe what he�d heard, because he couldn�t imagine anyone willingly risking their lives on a moment.

"Don�t you understand?" Percy demanded. His hair had fallen forward onto his forehead; he pushed it away. "Tony knows the du Tournai family � Comte du Tournai, the former ambassador to London. How convenient that he�s also related by marriage to Lord Grenville. Chauvelin would logically deduct that Dewhurst is the Pimpernel � the man with the contacts, see? You and I are the lieutenants. This is why I have to walk openly into Chauvelin�s trap. He�ll expect to hold me in exchange for Tony."

"If any of this is true, doesn�t it put you ahead of the game in having figured it out?" Andrew�s thick, pale eyebrows nearly met over his nose as he frowned, trying to piece together what Percy was telling him.

"To a degree. I suspect that I should be taken up within an hour or two of making an appearance in Paris and that Chauvelin will secure me in the same place he has hidden Armand � it makes sense that he will want to keep us close to lure the Pimpernel."

A gamble. It sounded like a hell of a gamble, Andrew decided, squinting over the brimming bowl of stew Madame Brogard placed in front of him. He watched Hastings ply his spoon through the liquid as if he were hunting for crabs.

"It smells like mussels, Tim. Mussels are horribly plentiful and dirt cheap � even the French have mussels."

With Andrew's reassurance, a very relieved Hastings dug into the bowl set before him, pausing between spoonfuls to speak. "Are you so sure that Chauvelin hasn't figured out that you are the Pimpernel?" Hastings asked, wiping his mouth on his handkerchief for lack of a proper napkin. "I've been thinking about everything I saw and heard at Shipwash's and it makes me wonder if he doesn't know already. I'm assuming that he used Armand as the incentive to get your wife to dupe Bathurst and tell him that we were supposed to meet in the stables... I don't know... maybe he threatened to have Armand killed and that is why she did it. So Chauvelin goes out to see who shows up, I know he was there because I saw him coming back to the party... the thing is that so did Marguerite. I don't see the need for both of them to go out there waiting to see who arrives, then Ffoulkes told me you were interrupted by a woman warning you. I have to assume that it was Marguerite. I didn't see any other woman out there and I had plenty of time to watch. So then I wondered what happened between when she gave Chauvelin the information and when she struck out across the lawn to warn you, it had to be something which made her believe giving that warning was more important than whatever Chauvelin was holding over her head. It would have to be because she knew Chauvelin or one of his lackeys would be there."

Hastings devoured another spoonful of soup before continuing. "Is it possible she found out that the fellow she betrayed was in fact her husband? Maybe that is why I find her in tears when I found her with Philip... at first I thought it was because she told Philip she was involved in the denunciation of St. Cyr and that Philip might have said something to her, because you remember that his relations were executed as a result of the same..." Hasting stopped himself because he realized he was steering himself far off topic. "What I'm say is, if Marguerite found you out that it's possible Chauvelin could have found out in the same place... or if not it is possible he could have deduced it from her actions."

The bowl of soup which had been carefully prepared and placed before Lord Antony Dewhurst remained untouched. He sat forward in his chair, carefully watching Percy as he spoke of what he had deduced from the events of the previous evening. Hastings and Andrew seemed somewhat skeptical and Tony couldn't blame them. After all, it wasn't just Armand's life on the line here (assuming that the terms of this dangerous game were actually that both Armand and Marguerite would pay with the loss of Armand's life if Chauvelin did not receive the information he desired from Lady Blakeney) but all of theirs if they were to be captured. Tony took a deep breath, watching apparitions step out of his bowl and dissipate in to thin air.

"I don't like this Percy. You're betting on half-knowledge and Hastings is right." Tony had to clench his jaw to keep from adding `for once' to the end of his statement. Hastings was on his side and if he were to convince his dear cousin of anything he might need assitence in persuading him. "What if this theory of yours turns our to be absolute bosh?! You'd be lying down on the bed of the guillotine and locking your own neck in place! I was inside the entire time the events at the stables were occuring, losing every pence I had on me, might I add. What if one of Chauvelin's aids had seen me there? They were crawling all over the Shipwash manor and surely they would have divulged this information to Chauvelin. I can't understand how you can honestly believe that the only factor of this equation that Chauvelin would have examined would be my connections? Yes, it's true that I am, quite literally, related to key members that have made our operations successful and that this would implicate me in these dealings, but I doubt that he would have failed to notice other obvious factors that would rule me out as a leader." Percy watched him, his face blank as he listened to Tony. "My temper and impulsiveness Percy! Armand and I are rather alike. We both would die for the people we care about and though that is true of you also, it is a card you hold very close to your chest. I wave my personality like a banner above my head for all to see and surely they would have noticed that a seemingly cool and calculated leader such as yourself could not possibly be me. And what if he did surmise that I am the blasted Scarlet Pimpernel? You would still be associated with the League Percy and Marguerite is your wife! If Chauvelin so wished to, he could harm both you and Armand to get Marguerite to do whatever he wished!" He sat back in his chair, his eyes calm, dark, and resolute. "Percy, honestly, you must give us a bit more to go on if you expect our loyalty in carrying out this plan. I will not allow you to walk into a trap unless *we* are using *you* as bate for Citizen Armand Chauvelin."

Hastings words had not been calculated to destroy Blakeney's peace of mind, Percy knew that, but all the same, they did. Both Hastings and Ffoulkes applied themselves to their steaming bowls as if nothing else in the world mattered, while Dewhurst seemed content to glare at his cousin as if he could bore through Percy's thick skull with his thoughts.

For himself, Percy spooned the food, sipping and swallowing, but tasting nothing; only Ffoulkes's intent slurping suggested he was missing a meal worth savouring - but Percy was too intent on everything else to be aware of what he ate. The wretched stink of manure from Brogard's stable filtered indoors somehow to mingle with the muzzy smell of sweat permeating wet wool, colouring Percy's thoughts.

Chauvelin. Armand. Fully six spies at Shipwash manor betrayed by their refusal to wear a footman's powdered wig. And what else? The Marquise de Fontenoy - did she play a part in this? Percy ruminated over Bathurst's infatuation and added it to his list of factors to juggle. At first her appearance had looked purely coincidental, but observing Lady Shipwash's borrowed footmen and their clubbed hair, Percy had scented danger. Chauvelin was closer and knew more than he'd thought. How? How had he come so close so quickly?

Percy mapped the events in his mind beginning with Dewhurst's insistence that the du Tournai family be got out of Paris at once. Percy hadn't interrogated either Tony or the count to any degree - it had been enough to know the man was in trouble. The story looked as clear as glass: Ambassador du Tournai, friend of Exeter, back in Paris and in danger - of course Tony would demand action on the family's behalf. It was unlikely this current trouble sprang from that incident. But what else, then?

"I can't see changing all my plans at this juncture," he stated aloud, startling Ffoulkes into spilling some broth on his frills.

"Damnation!"

"Right or no, Timothy, there's insufficient time to start over. We've less than a day's journey to Paris and Armand's life is in danger. Time matters. I won't know until I face Chauvelin what he knows, so we must proceed with the plan as it stands."

"Using Dewhurst as bait?" Sir Andrew asked as he spat into his napkin and dabbed at the brown spot on his cravat.

"No, using myself as bait. The reason I requested Tony's presence at once was to ensure that he and I are not seen together, but seen at the same time. Rest assured, Chauvelin has spies everywhere and our mutual presence in Paris will be reported.

"I expect you," Percy spoke to Tony, "to make a token appearance at all the usual places. Stroll along the rue Saint-Honore, but don't venture into any shop that has less than five people inside - I can't have you walking into a trap. Dine with friends, but only people you know can be trusted. Put in an appearance at the comedie and the opera, but please, Tony, please, don't go alone with any girls. No alleys, no streetwalkers; there's too much danger of being kidnapped. If I'm right, Chauvelin will watch Tony but let him alone, while I expect he'll grab me up within hours of my arrival in the city."

"If Dewhurst isn't to be with you, then how will he know . . ." Andrew began, but Percy interrupted him.

"Tony will trust me to be right. I will give him a detailed itinerary of where I expect to be. I will contact either Besoin or Reubens and get them to pass messages. Chauvelin can't possibly know about either of them since they've never been seen in our company; two little French tailors too insignificant to spit at."

"I recall Besoin well enough, but I don't recall this Reubens at all," Andrew said.

Percy tsk-tsked at him, some his good humour restored. "Plancher's new man, Andrew. Weasel-faced. About the same height as Chauvelin. Utterly ordinary in every way. Plancher tells me he has a tremendous thirst for rum and everyone knows how dear spirits are in France since war was declared. The messages go through Plancher and no one will ever recognize Reubens as one of my men; why, he doesn't know it himself!"

Someone chuckled at that, Hastings or Dewhurst, and Percy grinned. "Now Tony; as far as friends and acquaintances go, you will say you've come to Paris for a few new things that only Plancher can provide. Breeches are tighter this year . . ."

"Tighter!" Andrew squeaked. "Lord, I can hardly sit as it is."

"Plancher has deemed that breeches will be tighter this year, therefore they are. And coats are more fitted at the waist."

"We'll have to stop consuming cakes with tea," Andrew inserted.

"You won't, Hastings may," Percy teased. "Which brings me to you, Timothy. You and Ffoulkes must rest here for a day after we leave, then one or the other comes forward to Paris. Do whatever you like in town, but ostensibly, you are looking for me. Anyone who knows about the league can be told that you have orders for me, a change of plans from the chief. I expect Chauvelin to hear that. I don't know whether he will move on Tony at once, or if he'll wait to see what he does. The important part is that, even if someone tells you exactly where to find Tony - you continually miss him. Go to the same places he does, but avoid meeting him. This way he can leave you any messages you need without Chauvelin seeing you meet. This is how we'll stay in touch. Tony will visit Plancher for fittings every afternoon - say at two o'clock. He will party every night - uh, Tony - no gambling dens. Dances, parties, theatres, crowds. Strangers can draw too close to you at a hazard table."

"I can't see anything wrong with your outline, Percy," Andrew said. "So, either Hastings or myself follows you and Tony to Paris on Wednesday."

"Yes, decide for yourselves who it will be and the remaining fellow comes two days afterwards - that's Friday - with the same excuse since the first one hasn't returned. If all goes well I will have sprung Armand by then and I'll need help myself in getting free. Friday. Remember."

"Them?" Andrew asked.

Percy rounded on Hastings and demanded, "How many others are coming? And who have you informed?"

As Percy watched Hastings elaborately held up his hand and counted out four fingers. There were three men, plus Percy...which meant at least one more man was set to arrive.

"Yes, yes, I see," Percy muttered. "Who is it?"

Percy was nonplussed at Hastings's reply. "Well," he stammered, "we shall certainly have soldiers enough to throw against whatever Chauvelin musters. I had not planned for so many - but they will be useful in some capacity, I'm certain."

Andrew intruded uneasily, "I feared being outnumbered, Percy. Surely there is strength in numbers."

"Strength, yes, but also visibility. I think we should retain the bulk of our strength outside the gates of Paris where it is too easy to be contained. A word from Chauvelin could see all the gates closed and we'd be certain to lose a few good men."

Hastings took a decisive step forward, looking as if he wished to counter that idea, but held his tongue.

Blakeney turned to Hastings and said, "Lord Timothy, you have the gift of thinking for yourself which is all to the good. Think, yes, but remember you act only at my request."

Ffoulkes swivelled his head, glancing between Dewhurst and Hastings - from one hot-head to the other. What was Blakeney about, drawing attention to Hastings, when Dewhurst was the most likely to run against plans? True, Dewhurst could be counted on to follow Percy to the ends of the earth if need be, but he was ever good at deciding the alley on the left was eminently preferable to the doorway on the right - and then Sir Andrew was left staggering in the dark trying to find his rendezvous.

"Hastings is reliable," Andrew pointed out, "following instructions to the letter. He is known to revise only when plans go awry, I think."

"Which is not a problem," Percy countered, "when we are close and everyone notes the change. This time we are going to be spread over a quarter of the map of France and Chauvelin knows over half your faces. How will you vanish into the trees? D'you see my point? I'm nervous over so many lives hanging in the balance."

"Would you prefer MacKenzie, Stowmaries and the rest to remain here in Calais?" Andrew asked and shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

Brogard appeared, a bottle of wine in each hand. He set about refilling everyone's glasses, circulating quietly, but obviously.

"No; remaining here would be a waste of manpower. Perhaps we might arrange a string . . . Brogard, you could send each of the arrivals to a different posting-inn along the road to Paris."

"I could." Brogard leaned against the table, seeming reluctant to be drawn into the scheme.

"Far better to get the lads out from under your feet, hmm?"

He nodded slowly as if he could only process one bit of information at a time. "Better, yes. Send each one ahead as they come."

"To the next posting-inn on the road from Paris," Percy reminded him.

"Then, any messages that need to be relayed will speed quicker with a rider posted at each station."

Percy brightened at this thought.

"Well enough, then. I shall rest for three hours, then make my way to Paris. I suggest, Tony, that you do the same. We shall ride together as far as Poissy, then separate. I shall go south to the Champs Elysees and make my way toward the Louvre. You travel Montmartre to Plancher's shop. He'll put you up. I've had him make a list of safe houses and you shall move each night to a new place."

Andrew watched Percy drain his glass, turn and leave the room, pausing to rest a hand on Hastings's shoulder as he passed. At the door he pulled out a handful of coins and dribbled several into Brogard's palm. "For your assistance, and the maintenance of the fellows as they pass through your welcoming hands."

Brogard looked at his shoes for a moment.

"Oh," Percy called back to him from the stairs, "on no account are you to send any of my horses out - I don't care what the driver is willing to pay you. If you feel you'll be out of pocket on my account, I shall settle with you on my return. Keep a record, but on no account Brogard, will you send any of my horses out of your inn. They are to rest here for my league only. Understood?"

Brogard nodded his head slowly, one up, one down, as if even that much motion was superfluous.

Andrew watched him go and shivered slightly. What was going through the chief's mind, he wondered. What sort of madness did it take to walk into the lion's den, knowing you would be mauled and possibly killed?

Hastings slumped into a chair and dropped his head into his hands, pressed his temples where a dull pounding was beginning. Things had gone from bad to worse. They were running out half-cocked, without nearly enough information. Chauvelin had the upper-hand, was lording his little prize over them. Every rational thought told Hastings that they needed to go back and re-group, let Chauvelin show his hand and attack the pompous mutt when his guard was down. Chauvelin would be the fool to dispose of Armand now. Not while his sister was in England and she could be coerced into doing his bidding... but then that wouldn't work either. Lady Blakeney had shown that tactic wouldn't work when she warned Percy and Andrew at Shipwash. Damnation!

Chauvelin would know that Percy would rush out and would use the chief haste to his advantage. Percy's concern would make him more reckless, more incline to make mistakes, and what's more is that Percy would be delivering himself into Chauvelin's hands. Hastings knew there would be some blood spilled before all was done. How many lives would be lost to save this one?

The next few days would be unbearable. Wondering. Worrying.

"Pity there isn't anything we have to hold over Chauvelin," he grumbled.

"What sort of thing?" Sir Andrew asked, turning to stare at Hastings. "We know little enough about Chauvelin. How might we deduce something that could embarrass him enough to stop him?"

"Not stop him, Ffoulkes," Percy called from the stairs. "Hastings wants us to confound him - isn't that right Lord Timothy?" Sir Percy had paused in his march upward, turned and passed Lord Tony on the stairs as Percy went back down toward the small dining room in Le Chat Gris.

"Any ideas how we might confound the little weasel?" Percy asked. In the intervening silence they all heard Tony slam the bedroom door. Andrew shrugged - it was a typical reaction of Tony's and not one any of them gave a second thought to. Andrew knew Tony was angry and upset at being dragged back to France when they'd spent less than three weeks in London. Didn't they all regret missing the season's best parties? Still, there was work to be done. Lives held in the balance.

"Couldn't we find out what sort of women he spends time with - most men could be compromised in their choice of bed partners," Andrew said.

"Perhaps, but there's no time to discover that now, and since we don't know..." All of a sudden Percy grew quiet and Andrew held his breath. It was as if he could hear the wheels turning in Blakeney's head.

"Would you consider cuttin' your hair?" Percy asked, too nonchalantly. Andrew grabbed the long queue of soft blonde hair and whisked it protectively over his shoulder. "Or are you like Samson, deriving your strength from that mop?"

Andrew looked somewhat pensive and pained. "Why should I cut it?" he asked very slowly.

"I was thinkin' about dressing you up in livery and a servant's wig is all. You'd have to cut your hair."

"You don't want me to be your footman, do you?"

"No, Tony's footman." Percy watched Andrew's blue eyes blaze into indignation. "Well, think on it for a moment. I can't ask Lord Tony to be your footman, now can I? You are younger and junior in rank. It can't be helped, Andrew."

Ffoulkes blew out a hot breath and ran his fingers though his long, thin ponytail. Suzanne had run her fingers through it. She'd liked it. He'd liked her expression when she touched it.

"Right," Ffoulkes said. "Do it." Without a moment's hesitation, Percy turned to Lord Timothy. "Give us your sword, sir," he demanded and Hastings got to his feet to obey.

A neighbour put her head out of the window as the members of the league gathered in the road outside of Le Chat Gris. Andrew glanced up at her questioningly, and she slammed the window with a vicious fervency that could have shattered the glass. It was two hours before sunrise, and he shrugged down tighter into his new coat.

Navy with lemon-coloured facings - Exeter colours. The coat was warm enough, but the wig itched. He yearned to rip it off and scratch up and down both sides of his scalp from ears to forehead and back. His memory flashed visions of Lady Southesk at cards suddenly ripping off her wig and clawing at her scalp, dislodging feathers and filling from the teased hair and exposing a nest of baby rats...unngh!

Two footmen were stowing gear in the coach as the horses stamped their hooves and blew impatiently. The coachman checked the harness; it jingled with the horses' movements. Andrew noted the steam rising from their gleaming coats and felt colder in turn. These were four of Blakeney's finest draught horses, hitched to an impressive, too-large coach, guaranteed to draw attention.

Blakeney stood muttering at Hastings, who nodded, mouthed something back and nodded again. He didn't look pleased - no one did.

Tony blew against his hands and stamped his feet - in imitation of the horses, Andrew though and quirked a grin. Tony wore fine kid gloves and a tall hat. He looked far too complacent and Andrew knew he would be far more comfortable inside the carriage than his pseudo-footman would be clinging on to the back - but there was no going back. His own hair was braided into a short queue and covered with a white wig, well powdered, and sitting snug atop his head. Andrew refused to meet the eyes of anyone he knew. The sooner they were on the road, the better this charade would suit him.

"You have the list?" Sir Percy spoke in a low tone, running his tongue along his teeth and glancing up at the heavy cloud cover that obliterated all the usual stars of dawn.

Andrew nodded curtly.

"Stay in touch." Percy glanced right and left, then added, "and please keep an eye out for Tony. Exeter will give my head to Chauvelin if any harm befalls his only son and heir."

Andrew nodded once more and began to wonder if his role as footman was actually that of babysitter.

"I say, Percy..." Tony began as he stepped up into the carriage and then turned back to his cousin. "You're banking on four days, didn't you say, for all this to unwind? We'll be back in London by the fifteenth, right?"

"Of course we will," Percy said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "You'll be eating ices with Lady Melbourne and yawning over the Duke of Beaufort's travel monologues."

Tony turned with a nod and deposited himself on the well-padded seat inside the coach. Andrew blew out a short breath and climbed onto the back. He pounded on his hat once more to ensure it was tight, then grabbed the hand-holds. The horses took off with a lurch. They were on their way.

Percy tucked a duplicate copy of the note he'd given Ffoulkes into his own coat and watched as Brogard's stable lad brought his own horse, saddled and ready, to the road. Brogard, himself, appeared with the saddle bags.

"You'll remember what I told you?" Blakeney said. Brogard nodded.

Percy sniffed the air. Already the dawn was growing lighter. "Inspector Chauvelin will be by...probably within the hour, I'd say. He's coming with the tide if I know him at all."

Yes, the tide was coming in, he could smell it. Feel it. The air had changed. Brogard stood like an enormous toadstool before him, unmoving. Somewhat unpalatable. His big shoulders seemed to shrug under the shapeless blouse he wore and his large ears all but flapped in the rising breeze.

"I expect to see you in a week," Percy said, more for himself than Brogard.

The innkeeper's thin mouth moved. "You want I keep extra bed for you?"

Percy shook his head. "No, I won't be bring anyone else this time."

Brogard's shoulder moved infinitesimally. "You bring the Committee down on my neck one day," he muttered.

"Quite possibly. You'll denounce me then."

Brogard looked up at Blakeney. "P'rhaps," he replied.

Percy accepted the fact philosophically. They were tied by commerce, not politics. Money. As long as his money was better than the Committee's threats he remained safe. Percy imagined that Chauvelin could set up the guillotine outside Brogard's door and he'd weather the inconvenience - it would take the inspector's hands pressing his adam's apple before Brogard would really sing.

Percy shoved a boot into the stirrup and rose up into the saddle. "Dare I ask..." Brogard had begun to move towards the door; he paused. Turned. Met Percy's eyes.

"Would you have your wife make up that wonderful stew with the crab and tomatoes? No one in all England knows how to make it. Whenever I describe it, all I hear is that tomatoes are inedible."

"I will," Brogard said. "When?"

"Sunday next. I will move heaven and earth to be here for dinner on Sunday next."

Brogard nodded once more before disappearing inside his doorway. Percy kneed his mount and headed south.

Hastings heard Brogard plod up the short steps behind him and creak the door close, his business with Blakeney done. The only concern the inn keeper would have if Percy was captured or killed after he left was monetary, he had no care whether or not innocent men, women, and children were saved or kill, whether they passed through his establishment or passed on into oblivion so long as he was paid. Would he be so unconcerned if it were his head on the block? Unlikely. A man's politics changed quickly when his life was at stake - well, for most men that was the case.

Then there were men like Blakeney, whom Hastings watched as he sped down the road as though the devil himself were at his heels, who would gamble his life for his beliefs even when the odds were stacked against him. One couldn't help but admire such a man. Fortune had thus far favored him, but fortune was the type to leave a man in a heart beat. He could only hope that fortune stay by Blakeney a while longer, that she favored Ffoulkes and Dewhurst as well for that matter for they were in nearly as much danger.

He was stuck here another day, another day of Brogard and his lady-wife's hospitality. And Hastings didn't like the manner in which Madam Brogard eyed him and smiled as those he were a joint of succulent mutton. He prayed that Brogard had enough brains to know that Hastings did not reciprocate his wife's interest or that he didn't care, Hastings had no wish to wake up to an enraged husband.

Another day. Once Blakeney on his mount and the carriage disappeared from view, Hastings jogged up the three steps to Brogard's front door and went in.

At the first, second and third posting stations, Tony exited the carriage and vanished inside, returning only after the horses were ready to go. Andrew kicked a stone up and down the drive wondering how the hell they were going to free Armand. It galled him the way Percy set up a framework of plans around a non-existent central answer - it was like biting into a peach only to discover there was no pit.

At the fourth inn, Tony likewise abandoned him to take his dinner inside with the quality, leaving Andrew to fend for himself with the other servants. Picturing a plate loaded with steaming chops and gravy and imagining himself sorely deprived, Andrew wandered to the front of the coach where he met the eyes of the driver.

"Have a bite with me," he said as the man dropped to the ground next to him.

The driver offered a curt nod and together they lounged on the grass next to a tree outside the back door of the inn where they were each given a stout mug of local ale, a bowl of thin soup and a thick wedge of highly spiced pie.

"Good thing Hastings can't see this," Andrew muttered to himself as he devoured the pie. He shared the heel of bread Madame Brogard had packed for him and the driver passed his skin of sour Bordeaux. Their conversation was of potholes and horseshoes until another coach pulled up and silenced them both. A berlin pulled by six matched greys and it shoved Dewhurst's flashy conveyance in the shade.

"Sacre aristo!" the coachman said, spitting lavishly.

"Too true," Andrew muttered. "Filthy buggers one and all." Then the top of Dewhurst's shiny black hat came into view and they got to their feet reluctantly.

Dewhurst looked expectantly at Ffoulkes; Andrew shrugged into character and sauntered forward, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and assuming an air of resignation.

"Any idea who that is?" Dewhurst asked, motioning with his nose at the fancy berlin.

"Didn't see who . . ."

And then the window shade was raised and a head popped out. From the back they saw a blue bonnet covering chestnut curls and a narrow shoulder that suggested a slender figure.

"Gaston! Come down and talk to me."

Her driver leaped down, went to the window. They spoke. He shrugged, trudged up the stairs and disappeared inside the inn.

The woman faced Ffoulkes and Dewhurst, and both men were rendered silent as they faced the fairest, most exquisitely beautiful creature either of them had seen in a week. Andrew sucked in his breath, sharply aware of how very long he'd been faithful to Mademoiselle du Tournai.

"A pretty bit," Dewhurst whispered.

"Vive la France," Ffoulkes replied feeling the impact of the woman's beauty as a physical force.

When she glanced in their direction Andrew felt the familiarity of the once-over she gave him with her baby-blues before fastening her attention on Lord Tony. A-gleam in all his aristocratic polish and splendour, like called to like, and Dewhurst strode to her window as if he wore springs, while Andrew bit his tongue and cursed his servant's coat. What wouldn't he give for half an hour alone with the likes of her? He'd show her a couple of things a woman of good breeding would never have heard of before. He twisted away, unwilling to watch the couple exchange pleasantries: a summary of the weather, or the condition of the road, or whatever . . .

Andrew concentrated, envisioning a scene in which the harness of their carriage gave way and Lord Tony Dewhurst was dumped unceremoniously in the muddy ditch. Then, he pictured one of the brightly painted yellow wheels losing a nut and Tony sailing face first into a tree. It was a sadly limited revenge and didn't ease the nagging ache that was eating him up in the slightest.

Ffoulkes missed his opportunity to gauge Dewhurst's success with the wench; the slam of the door brought him back to his duty and with a heavy sigh, he climbed onto the back of the coach. Fidelity was killing him by degrees, he was sure of it. When he saw Suzanne once again she would be jolted to the marrow by the kiss he intended to give her. She would never recover from the effects of his passion - never!

They were a league away from their next posting station when the wheel on Andrew's side began to wobble. He was too far from the driver for a shout to be heard. Frantically he hammered on the back of the carriage and hoped Tony would hear before the wheel came free and they all went flying into the ditch. It was one thing to wish disaster on his hapless friend and another to actually see it happen.

Happily, Andrew heard an answering thump as Tony banged on the roof of the coach next to the driver, then felt the lurch in his belly as the conveyance slowed. It took less than half an hour to complete the repair and once again they were on their way; but not before Ffoulkes had finally had the opportunity to speak a few words to Lord Tony.

"Percy was explicit that we not ask any questions until after we passed Liancourt. At the last three stops before we reach the gates, we are both to enquire whether anyone has seen any members of the committee on the road."

Tony's gaze met Andrew's with a silent question.

"He said, it wouldn't do for any of the deputies to discover we're asking questions before we are able to reach Paris," Andrew qualified. "You can be sure Chauvelin's deputies will be sporting their ribbons and indulging themselves in all the perquisites their position allows. When we reach Clermont I will question the stable hands; you speak to the inn-keeper."

Dewhurst nodded abruptly, then climbed back into the carriage. Andrew wore a grin as he steadied himself on the back. He hadn't mentioned the servants - which was because he intended to start his questioning with the maids - and, really, he couldn't be blamed if one of them was friendly. Willing. Perhaps she wouldn't be as old as the century or as plain as the road, although at this moment, it didn't matter if she was!

Andrew blinked and turned away for an instant. He breathed in and out slowly. Dewhurst had had the comfortable seat, the warm dinner, and he couldn't even keep a few instructions straight.

"The committee. That weasel Chauvelin is on our heels - well, Percy is convinced he is at any rate. Me, I think he probably went straight to Blakeney Manor. It was fairly obvious at the party that Marguerite is aiding him. Percy feared that one of Chauvelin's aides accompanied Armand back to Paris . . . do you see this much, Dewhurst?" Lord Tony was looking uncommonly drawn and pale, and Andrew suddenly recalled a time about a year back when Dewhurst had turned fatally ill in a matter of hours. What would he do if Dewhurst was ill again?

"Should I order you willow-bark tea?" Andrew asked more gently. Tony shook his head emphatically and looked a little more lively.

"What if Chauvelin gave his assistant orders to watch the roads between Calais and Paris, knowing Percy would follow Armand? Percy wants to avoid any messages being sent on ahead of us. He wants the first notice of the Pimpernel's return to France to be your arrival at the Paris gates. I couldn't believe Percy expects Chauvelin to buy the idea that you are the Pimpernel, but Percy insists all the leads suggest it's you and not him. The aristo road to London through Grenville. The fact that your family knew du Tournai, hell, even your connections to families like Saint-Cyr make you an obvious candidate. You've been in Paris with Blakeney on every trip and you were visibly present at Shipwash manor. Percy's certain that his idiot-fop persona will have confused Chauvelin just enough that he'll look at the two of you and realize you are the only one who could put two and two together."

Tony's eyes were pink; Andrew watched him rub them again. The lad's hands were noticeably trembling as if he hadn't slept in a couple of days. Andrew continued to explain Blakeney's directions, but with less rancour in his tone. "We make a splashy entrance into the city. Everyone sees you. Reports pour into Chauvelin's office from every corner of the city and once he returns he'll spring. Meanwhile, Percy expects that you will be followed."

Tony nodded curtly, seeming to have remembered that part of the programme.

"First stop is Maison de Plancher, to review the latest fashions. Surely you remember Percy saying that breeches will be tighter this year and coats snug at the waist? Lord, no more iced cakes for me."Andrew tried a grin and patted his flat belly.

"After that it's just pick and choose whomever you wish to see for the evening - but there were two provisos on your choices. One is that you stick to people you know well, and house parties. No gambling dens. He also said specifically to watch out for streetwalkers. Won't do for you to get a knife between the ribs thanks to a ground-beater in the committee's pay and we both know there are more than a few of around. Oh, and you're to give me liberty every evening as I have my own list of projects to see to. I say, Tony, are you feelin' all right?"

A disheveled, fairly ragged figure broke his fast in the corner of the inn's public room. A crust of stale bread, and some slightly hardened cheese accompanied his cup of cheap wine. The man contemplated the events of the past few days as he slowly masticated, keeping a watchful eye on the other occupants of the place. Nothing would escape his attentions from this vantage point. He had clear sight of all doors and windows, his back to the wall, there would be no chance for someone to surprise him. Using his favored dirk to spear bites of food, he remained armed at all times, weapon in hand. He did not like this place.

His present appearance barely allowed his friends to recognize him as the usually stylish baronet Glynde. Nobody tossed even a second glance his way. Philip blended with his surroundings, a skill well-learned through missions of reconnaissance, dining in the midst of his enemies more than once. It was so much second nature to him now, the background he disappeared into could almost be called home. Philip listened to bits of conversation around him, not really expecting anything of consequence to be uttered in this place, but remaining alert at the possibility, nonetheless.

Armand was fortunate he was needed as bait. To be kept alive, however, did not mean he would remain unbroken. The baronet sighed, wondering what the lad had suffered at the hands of those currently holding the power over the blade. Philip fervently hoped that young Saint-Just held his own, refusing to reveal all, though he would not fault him for cracking. Visions of unspeakable tortures formed in his mind.

Philip was fairly certain that the identity of the Pimpernel was already known to Chauvelin. The little weasel had looked far too pleased with himself at the soiree... the baronet feared that if they did not move swiftly, Saint-Just would outlive his usefulness as Chauvelin's lure. Worry nibbled at the corners of his mind. Philip prayed that Blakeney wasn't riding headlong into a trap his ever-scheming brain could not magic him out of. Their leader gone, the league would be quite lost, and with it so many lives which still awaited aid.

What bit of trickery was Blakeney planning this time, he wondered. The Pimpernel's unconventional strategies never ceased to amaze him. What was more was that they often seemed as though he came up with them completely off the cuff. The man was bloody brilliant. For a moment Philip caught himself thinking about what Blakeney might do in his shoes concerning his recently deceased groom...

He thought of his first 'rescue-mission' in France. His mind still boggled at the reappearance of the lady. The baronet had been so sure she had been caught. Now she was on her way to...No. Philip took a deep breath. This was not the time to let the woman cloud his thoughts. Danielle would be safe in Chilton's care. The baronet would be able to concentrate on the task at hand. He immediately regretted inhaling so deeply, wishing he were at home, soaking in a hot bath. When he left, he'd barely had enough time to pack and change his clothes. If anyone had seen him in the same carriage with the lady Wexton, kidnapping would soon be added to the unsavory rumors surrounding the dregs of what was once a decent reputation... Philip heaved another tired sigh, and speared a bit of cheese, waiting for orders. He would have to look at the next post, if there was no information to be had here. Still not sure if more time spent in this place was better, not running into any of the league when he arrived at the Chat Gris almost had him regretting just barely having caught the tide at the crack of dawn. On the other hand, it was yet quite early in the day.

A frowning stable-lad entered the room. His gait, and the shock of dark hair, coupled with the recognition in his eyes when spying the man in the corner caused the baronet to assume him to be the Lord Hastings. 'You�re early.' His whispered statement of the obvious got the man an affirmative grunt, his voice confirming the educated guess. Philip had been sure that this man would be the one to relay his instructions - he usually was. Thus, using the dirk that had been the lord's gift to the baronet many years ago had gotten the proper response.

"Left behind a bit of a mess," the man spoke around a bite of food. "Better to arrive early than not at all." Watching the straggling other occupant of the room still entangled in conversation with the inn-keeper, Philip swallowed the last bit of sour wine, and promptly dragged the back of his hand over his mouth.

A crooked smile appeared as he looked at his friend. "Y'know, if the ton knew that both the favorite unattached Lord, and the favorite Pariah are wearing dirt so frequently, filth would be quite in fashion by now."

The grin disappeared as quickly as it had come. Thinking of the small pile of bodies he had left behind between Surrey and London, Philip sighed. Putting all jesting and personal matter aside, leaving only Saint-Just, and Blakeney on his mind, the man met Hastings' eye. "What happens now?"

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes glanced at his friend, warmed by his change in demeanour. Perhaps Lord Tony had been improved by a day-long jounce over rough roads and bad food - who was to say what would change a man's temper? This sort of teasing expectancy was something more along the lines of the old Tony...or rather, the younger Tony - the lad Ffoulkes had known in school: the prankster. The teacher's pet.

Andrew grinned and something of his usual effervescence shone through.

"Corsets?" He shook his head impatiently. "I know nothing of men's corsets. Now ladies corsets..." He allowed the phrase to linger, watching Tony absorb the double entrendre, waiting to see if he'd rise to the bait. "Damnation," Andrew continued, his voice pitched low, "I can't tell you how much I hate France! My knees ache from jarring over all the ruts in the road. And look at this - " he presented his hands. "I've skinned every knuckle. Every one!" Tony looked with the mildest of interest as if Sir Andrew's scraped knuckles were nothing compared to the agonies he had suffered sitting all alone in comfort, swaying with the motion of a well-sprung carriage.

Andrew whipped off the neat wig he wore and scratched his scalp luxuriantly. "D'you know, my father wore one of these every day of his life? I can't think how he endured it."

Tony grinned in response; Andrew's buffoonery was getting to him - as it always did. "I won't complain anymore, I promise. It's fortunate for me that the coat is a good one." He patted a wide lapel. "Exeter colours. Never dreamed I'd ever wear your family's colours, Dewhurst. Lord, I feel privileged! And it's warm! I'm learning to appreciate some of what a footman's day is all about and I'm feelin' monstrous pleased that I don't have to do this for the rest of my life."

Andrew plopped the wig back onto his head and said, "When we get to Paris, after the visit to Plancher, will you please, I beg of you, choose somewhere for supper where I can have a decent meal. The thing I hate the most about the revolution is that all the good kitchens have been shut down and all the best cooks are out of work."

The wheel was back on and the horses stamping their feet. The next stop would be the gates of Paris.

'What happens is that Brogard will set you up in a posting inn near Paris and you will have to wait for the Chief's orders...' Hastings had said, and so it was done. Philip sighed, dragging his feet up the stairs behind the innkeeper. Spending the night waiting in this godforsaken place would be tedious at best. He wasn't looking forward to another nerve-wracking day of twiddling his thumbs. Action, not waiting, was his strong suit. The latter only wore on his patience and sanity, leaving him to his unwelcome thoughts. The man showed him to a door, and left the baronet to return to his duties.

Looking about his rooms, he found that this inn seemed oddly familiar. Then again, most of them had the same ambience. The baronet could not recall having heard its name before.

His musings came to a grinding halt, and started meandering in a completely different direction as he spied a familiar rump. It belonged to the maid, presently making up the bed. She had not yet noticed someone else having entered the room. A grin found his lips, as he gently closed the door, leaning against it. Crossing his arms, he continued admiring the view as the girl struggled to tuck the sheets around the far corner of the matress, lifting her swaying derriere enticingly.

Finally, she lost her balance, dropping onto the freshly made bed. His lips twitched. The girl cursed, and Philip could no longer contain his mirth. The laughter had her scrambling off the bed, and blushing red as a beet, refusing to look up from her feet.

Philip took a few slow steps towards the pretty little blonde, scanning his memory for a name. He took her hand. She shrank back slightly, likely fearing retribution for her foul words. Philip brought her fingers to his lips, while the other hand found her chin, urging her to look up at him. Those big blue eyes grew larger still, in recognition. "Sebastian...?" She whispered his middle-name - one he used often on these trips, when he abandoned his title. Philip nodded, finally settling on what this enchanting little creature was called.

"Bon Soir, ma jolie Denise." He finished the greeting with a kiss. Apparently quite happy to see him again, Denise returned his advances with a hearty appetite of her own, making him very aware of how long it had been since his last pleasant encounter with the opposite sex.

No, Philip thought shrugging out of his shirt, waiting would not be so terrible this time.