Treachery

Despite her efforts at kindness, Bathurst was still act the part of a rude, arrogant, mannerless boor - lashing out... why? Perhaps that was how they kept secret their activities, by presenting a the facade of being the most socially undesirable members of society. Whoever would consider my Lord Bathurst to be a member of so compassionate a society? It was unconceivable! it was brilliant! But Sir Andrew Ffoulkes could not hide the hero's heart that beat within his breast... and now he was suspect.

Marguerite lead the procession upstairs to where they might find a washing basin, Bathurst shuffling along beside her looking extremely put out, but compliant, and Mrs. Davis bringing up the rear of the tight formation. They looks they received on the stairs were more quizzical than scandalized, they all knew what couple were up to in those rooms, but where did the maid fit in? If the maid had been pretty, perhaps... but the woman was as plain and sour as they come � what was he thinking? The door was open to the first room they came to, the counterpane slightly rumpled - recently vacated? "Your coat, my Lord Bathurst," she commanded, holding out a hand for the garment that suffered the worst for the collision. Bathurst reluctantly yanked off the coat and inelegantly thrust it at her. Marguerite took it and held it out at arms length, to examine it, Mrs. Davis drew up closer and tsked. At least three distinct types of cheese could be distinguished. Cream and light orange contrasting the dark blue and red stripes. Thank goodness the coat was so dark! If this had been Sir Percy�s grey, the damage would be irreparable.

"A mess to be sure, but salvageable," Marguerite stated, more to Mrs. Davis than Bathurst . "But the breeches...� she made a brief gesture to the object in question, Bathurst blushed. �� we'll need Henshaw. Cleaning those is not work for woman...� Davis nodded in agreement, clearly not fully understanding the order to fetch him. �I saw him in the ballroom." The old woman stared at the stains on Bathurst 's breeches for a time then gave Marguerite a suspicious look and another to Bathurst . Rolling her eyes, Marguerite stepped out into the hall indicating she would wait there until Davis 's return, the old maid thus satisfied hurried quickly downstairs to fetch Henshaw before my mistress could compromise herself with the young lord.

"While she is away, you may wish to try and brush off what you can from your breeches," she advised Bathurst who stood glaring out at her, she took a handkerchief from her reticule and began to dab at the coat. Seeing nothing else to do, Bathurst shrugged his shoulders and went to a mirror, taking swipes at the drying bits on his waist coat and breeches. Marguerite leaned against the door jamb, her back to Bathurst , with no one watching she slowly ran a hand over the coat, listening ever so carefully for the crinkle of paper. Chauvelin said it was in his pocket - which pocket? There were enough and there would be no hope if the note was in his pants pocket. Snuff box, quizzing glass, loose coins... she ran her hand along one sleeve and then the other... nothing...

"I've heard you've got quite a reputation for gambling..." she prompted hoping to cover any noises her wandering fingers might make � no response. She turning the coat over, she began feeling her way down again. "I imagine that such games are highly... risky." She paused mid-sentence at the sound of paper crackling, then finished before he thought any wiser. The note! She burrowed her hand quickly inside.

A single scrap of paper lay in the palm of her hand as she pulled out it out of the pocket... her brother's salvation. She listened for a moment, Bathurst could be heard muttering under his breath in the room behind her, unaware of her treachery, and the indistinguishable general murmur � occasionally punctuated by a peel of laughter - from downstairs assured her no one was near. Quietly she smoothed it out, listen to Bathurst and to the murmur on the stairs. Two word: Stables. Midnight . That was it? It might be a tryst. She imagined Chauvelin creeping out to the stable, pistol at the ready, throwing the doors open to find my lord Bathurst and his Spaniard with her skirt thrown up over her head... Besides those two words there was nothing, nothing to intrigue or espionage. How was Chauvelin certain that the note had any deeper meaning? Stables. Midnight.

She heard the sound of their voices before the creak of their footsteps on the stairs and her heart stopped. "...Her ladyship told me you were near." Mrs. Davis! Marguerite thrust the paper back into the pocket, just as their foreheads came into view. Just in time! Marguerite rushed to the head of the stairs to meet them.

"My Lord Bathurst is an insufferable lout," she confided in them quietly, as she handed Henshaw the coat. "But he is Sir Percy's friend, do what you can for him... If he asks after me, tell me him I removed myself so that my presence would disturb him no more." With that Marguerite swept past them looking appropriately indignant, let them conjecture.

What utter humiliation to seen wandering up to the bedrooms with Lady Blakeney and her dumpy little maid. Not that anyone could fault his taste, for she was exquistely beautiful, but she was also a well known spy and word would travel around that he was the lastest of her conquest and wonder bits of intelligence he'd parted with as she pumped him for information - interesting thought, that...

The two women pulled him into the nearest bedchamber and demanded his coat, he relinquished it reluctantly and listened as they assessed the damaged. He wondered about Lady Blakeney's maid. She appeared to be English, but they say those French spies are clever. For the moment he would have to assume the plain-faced woman was more loyal to Marguerite than Percy and that she too was in on the plot. "But the breeches...� Self-consciously, Bathurst looked down at his suit and proclaimed his horror through a sharp intake of breath. For a moment he worried that the incident had been planned to draw him up here all along, they would strip him down and the lady would begin plying her charms when he was helplessly undressed. Well, she'd be using her talents for naught, it would take more than the heat of some French hoyden's thigh to make him betray his chief and his country. �... we'll need Henshaw..." This was some relief, as he recognized the name of one of Blakeney's trusted valets. Lady Blakeney used the excuse to try and send her maid away, but the woman, bless her loyal soul (she was loyal to her master), stood firm and apprehensive until Lady Blakeney left the room with his coat in hand. His coat! Which contained the slip of paper with the meeting place on it. Lord in heaven, if she found the note...!

Mrs. Davis left and Marguerite stayed in the corridor, Bathurst watching her intently. "While she is away, you may wish to try and brush off what you can from your breeches," Marguerite informed him haughtily, flicking at his coat and looking disappointed, perhaps she was upset that she would not have the opportunity to bed him. He watched her lean in elegantly against the door jamb, he could not see his coat but depended on the jerking movements of her elbow to indicate that she was not burrowing through the pockets. He dropped onto the bed and began brushing at his pants, listening and watch Marguerite, praying that the note would remain unknown to her. She made idle conversation, but that would not distract him. "I do alright at the card table... won a splendid steed off Sir Andrew Ffoulkes just a few months ago," he muttered, still ever vigilant, and tensed as she paused.

Slowly, silently, he stood and crept to the door, just as he was coming up on her he heard the faint murmur of voices and Marguerite dashed away. His coat still with her. Bathurst craned his head out of the room and saw her stop at the head of the stair, her maid and a valet ascending to meet her. She whispered a few words and thrust the coat at the valet before she fled passed them. The two looked at each other for a moment, then the maid turned in pursuit while Henshaw continued forward. In response to Bathurst 's quizzical expression Henshaw stated, "Lady Blakeney sends her apologies and feels that you would be more comfortable without her presence." Bathurst snatched the coat from Henshaw and burrowed into the pockets. The note was still there.

"Well then," Bathurst changed the topic. "What can you do for this?" He held the coat out to the valet and ushered him into the room. As soon as he was decent he would track down Andrew to give him the note and to take his Teresia back for him.

Chauvelin left Desgas to puff and fume while he went in search of his puppets. Teresia could have taken Ffoulkes to the garden - no, too cold for what she intended - or one of the bedrooms more likely, so Chauvelin took a position opposite the staircase to watch the comings and goings. The location was quite optimal given the chill of the night, for most of Shipwash's guests wouldn't detour through the garden and would likely pass this way, that gave him a better opportunity of seeing Marguerite and accessing his own men. The Scarlet Pimpernel would likely walk by him, unaware of the vast trap closing in around him.

The first to grab his attention was Beaucarnot, disguised in shipwash livery and bearing a tray of pate, which he shoved under Chauvelin's nose as offering. If Beaucarnot was near then it was because Cabarrus's English gentleman was nearby as well. "I figured you'd be watching her," Beaucarnot whispered. "The maid came down two minutes ago and I figure she's at it now."

"Maid?" Chauvelin asked dumbly.

"Well, I hope she's quick," Beaucarnot whispered, "because there's the maid now." Beaucarnot slipped off as Chauvelin looked at the staircase again. Now there was a plump woman in a blue coat, along side a valet in Blakeney green. Marguerite? Had she resorted to bedding with that Bathurst to get the note, he thought guiltily. Such loyalty. He wondered how Armand would react when he learned of the extent to which his sister went to procure his freedom. A moment later, he saw Marguerite on the stairs, moving with amazing speed for all those petticoats, then scamper off away from the ballroom. Behind her, and much slower, was the maid, who paused at the foot of the stairs and headed towards the ballroom, the most likely path for Marguerite to have taken. Chauvelin waited until Mrs. Davis disappeared and followed Marguerite. She was skirting the crowds and making only brief conversations with those she passed. It almost appeared as though she were heading for the front door at one point but stopped to question one of Shipwash's footmen. The man made several gestures as he spoke and she nodded in acknowledgement. What appeared to be another question, to which the man extracted his pocket watch and showed her the face.

She knew something. He could feel it.

Chauvelin waited for the footman to leave her, then approached himself. "I trust you are not leaving, Lady Blakeney," he said aloud and she flinched at the sound of his voice. "I had hoped to ask you for the pleasure of one more dance." She turned frightened eyes on him and offered him her hand. She knew something.

He pulled her hand through his arm and slowly paced to the ballroom. "Have you any news on our friend?" he whispered, smiling. Genuinely smiling.

Despite her desperate hope to avoid being Chauvelin�s tool, Marguerite found herself ultimately catering to his wishes at every turn. He told her to seek out Andrew Ffoulkes � she did. Demanded she learn the content of Bathurst�s note � she complied. Despite every instinct to rebel, there was that overpowering drive � almost a maternal instinct � to preserve that precious life that depended on her for survival. With each choice, she convinced herself that the Scarlet Pimpernel�s fate was not certain, while Armand�s fate was � she could not think of the faceless masses whose sole hope was that brave and compassionate Englishman, it was too much to bear! However, with each successive choice the decision was a harder to justify. What if this piece was his undoing? A time and place for Chauvelin to set up an ambush and rid the republic of its most hated foe.

It could be a meeting place, then again it could be a horse lost in a game of Hazard. It might have nothing to do with the Pimpernel at all. However, Chauvelin was not the type to act rashly in matters such as these, surely he knew from whom Bathurst received the letter - possibly had some idea of it�s content. She fled the scene of the crime, not knowing exactly what to do next, but trying to put as much distance between herself and the scene of a vile treachery. But it was not yet complete. At the base of the stairs, she made her way to the reception hall... fewer people there now that Lady Shipwash was no longer receiving and less likelihood of meeting Chauvelin, who would wish to remain in a position where he could direct his spies and to watch drama play itself out. He knew she would have to seek him out.

If only she knew the information he had accumulated she might play on his uncertainty. She could give him a false report, however if he ever discovered the lie the game was finished. She had to figure out what this all meant, if possible she could determine the extent of the damage this scrap of information could do in Chauvelin's hands. She had to eliminate possibilities. As she approached the front doors, she found a number of footmen congregated. They needed to be at ready for late arrivals or those wishing to leave early, though they would little to do until much later in the evening. She plucked at the arm of one young man passing and he blushed and bowed to her. "At your service, my lady."

"Do you have knowledge of the horses kept in your mistress's stable?" she asked, ignoring the manner with which his eyes raked over her.

"Yes, my lady. A fair knowledge," he answered.

"Perchance, do you know if there is one by the name of 'Midnight' kept there?"

"Not at the moment. Lady Shipwash doesn't owe one by that name... but a good number of gentlemen came on horseback," he added. That wasn't helpful. It might eliminate the possibility that the note was a settlement of a debt� if it was a horse it would be a difficult trail to follow.

Another thought. "So, you've had many guests passing through the stables this evening?"

"No, my lady. The gentlemen usually hand 'em off to the grooms," he told her, surprised she did not already know this. "Lords shouldn't have to track all the way up the drive for their horses."

"Did Sir Andrew Ffoulkes arrive on horseback?" she asked, grasping at straws.

"No, hired carriage. That's the driver over there," he pointed someone out, but Marguerite only glanced in the direction he indicated, not really seeing or caring to see.

"Where are the stables from here?" she continued, not sure where to take this line of questioning, but hoping to stumble onto some piece of information that would snap the pieces together. The young man gave her detailed instructions, eyeing her quizzically - why would the lady be so interested in the stables. "Are there many hands on duty there this evening?" An expression of comprehension (she was looking for a spot to meet her lover!)

"Jus' the stable lads looking after the horses 'til they're asked for... however it would take little to distract those boys," he added helpfully. Though, the footman's thoughts were most provocative, it sent Marguerite�s thoughts on a different track. It must have been the time and place of a meeting. It was well away from the rest of the party and for a few coins, the stable lads could be sent away, where better for the Pimpernel to meet his band than in such a place. Chauvelin knew they were meeting tonight and that Bathurst had the information as to where, she would be delivering the Pimpernel to him with two words.

"Do you know what time it is?" she asked finally. The young man burrowed into the pocket of his waist coat and extracted his watch, opened it and held it proudly before her. Five minutes till eleven. If �Midnight� was a meeting time, she could avoid Chauvelin until just past midnight, he wouldn't have time to set up an ambush or she could distract Sir Andrew until after midnight so that his secret would be kept safe or something... she had just over an hour to foil Chauvelin's schemes. If they could be could be undone. Distractedly, she dismissed the footman, trying to settle on a course of action.

What did she know? She knew that Andrew Ffoulkes was the Scarlet Pimpernel � she�d convinced herself of that � and that Chauvelin suspected as much, but was not entirely certain. The evidence thus far let Chauvelin to believe that Andrew was connected to his quarry or was the man he sought. Also that something momentous had happened, why else arrange a meeting in the stables at midnight � why else would a band usually so cautious allowed their actions to be observed by Chauvelin�s network of spies. Whatever had happened was as desperate was it was unexpected. She also knew the Bathurst was connected to the Pimpernel, either as a colleague or perhaps someone seeking aid - he said his little friend had recently escaped. If the meeting were cancelled or moved�

"I trust you are not leaving, Lady Blakeney." The voice sent a chill through her� it conjured up images of death and despair, act he�d done and those he�d yet to do. Uninvited, Chauvelin linked arms with her and propelled her back the way she�d come. "Have you any news on our friend?� He knew she�d seen the note � how? Had she been seen reading the note?

�There was little to tell, the message could mean anything,� Marguerite stalled, weigh the cost of a lie, of telling the truth.

�Let me be the judge of that,� Chauvelin returned. �If Armand were my brother I would not play the games you are chancing.� Fear won.

�There were only two words� �Stables� and �Midnight�.� Marguerite hung her head, ashamed that she did not she had not have the courage, to resist Chauvelin�s demands. If Chauvelin could stomach sending a baby to the blade, what hope Armand?

�And how was it signed?�

�It was not signed. Just those two words� nothing to indicate it might be anything more than a tryst.�

Sitting on a bench in a dark hallway, Suzanne looked absolutely horrified. Thinking only of Percy's parting words:

"Are you not aware that she is in league with Chauvelin?" Chauvelin! Ha! Marguerite knew better than to entangle herself with that ruthless monster again. It was a true irony that he shared his sur name with Marguerite's dear brother whom she loved most in the world. Suzanne wondered if that fact had ever bothered her friend... that she was forced to deal with this man, Armand Chauvelin, who was the polar opposite of her brother, Armand Saint-Just. But that didn't matter... did Margot understand that Percy did not trust her? Did she know he thought her to be in league with Chauvelin? If not, could Suzanne tell her?

"Eediot." She said to herself softly. Of course the Scarlet Pimpernel would be a paranoid man, but to suspect one's own wife?! She shook her head and pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples.

When Suzanne found her mother, she was leaning heavily on the Comte du Tournai to stand. Apparently the Comptesse needed to decompress more than her daughter had estimated and the bubbles from the champagne had affected her very quickly. Her father kissed her cheek and sent her on her way. Once she knew she would no longer be required to find her mother every half hour (for it was evident that her dear Maman would not be noticing the minutes ticking off the clock for several hours, at least) Suzanne tucked herself out of sight. Several intoxicated couples had passed her, trying to find a more private location to express their lust for each other. Suzanne hadn't looked up at one of them. She wished they would all go away and leave her alone. Now that her mind was brooding, it was unlikely that her dark mood would lift before the evening was over. Dieu! Why had she come?! She had hoped to see Sir Ffoulkes but the longer she remained at the Shipwash Manor the less likely it seemed she would find him, not that she was searching high and low for him. It seemed useless with so many people around!

"True, loyal, brave, and steadfast. Zat ees what Sir Peercy called 'im!" She said to herself. "`ow could 'ee be both loyal and uh cad?" None of it made sense and the more Suzanne tried to wrap her head around it, the more complicated it seemed.

Suzanne no longer felt elegant. She felt like a small child dressed up in her mother's finery. Nothing pleasant had come out of this evening and what's more, she had the overwhelming urge to spit in Sir Percy's face if she saw him again, a social faux pas to be certain. Oh the English, so cold and detached when dealing with emotion! How could a person like that marry a woman who is so warm blooded that some of her wonderful spunk even rubbed off on little Suzanne?!

The cool air of the garden was a salve to his burning skin and Andrew sighed aloud as a brisk wind blew his coat open and his limp hair took flight. "I adore a good party, but the heat . . . God save me, I've never been able to take the heat." He felt the woman at his side stir and he grinned down at her. "Not that you'd mind it, I'm sure. You must wonder what I'm complaining over. What heat? you'd ask. This is heat? Come linger on the plazas of Granada and tell me about heat. - does that sound familiar?" Andrew laughed aloud. "I've been to Spain and I remember it was quite captivating. I was most taken by the fetchin' young women. White shoulders winking through black lace shawls and glossy black hair shining beneath white veils. I remember pomegranates and figs and fierce arguments about Catholicism." He felt Teresia reach out and rest her hand against his arm. Automatically he walked with her down the steps onto the grass, making his way into the grove of trees that separated the garden from a meadow. "But you're most recently from Paris which is a long way from Spain. And seeking refuge in England brings you even further from your homeland. You'll be homesick, I'd think." The light from the house was far away, but with nothing but starlight to relieve the black night, it still brightened the garden even at this distance. Andrew looked down into Teresia's sharply defined face and the artist in him marvelled at the chiselled perfection of her features. Her eyes were alight as if glowing from within and her lips - her lips were full and inviting.

Rouget, Berthier, Jacques and a handful of others were doing their job. MacKensie and Dewhurst were still occupied with that idiot, Blakeney, and did not appear to be in much of a hurry to get on their way, and Chauvelin had gone to seek out Mademoiselle Saint-Just himself. Teresia was with Ffoulkes. Everything was ticking like clock-work and now all he had to do was sit back and watch. Watch and wait. And be ready.

Taking a flute of champagne, Desgas was about to settle in against the wall to keep an eye on his surroundings, but a familiar, slightly red and agrivated face, crossed his path and headed for the hallway. Where the devil had she been? Taking a quick glance back at the two Englishmen he had been keeping an eye on, he sent a meaningful glance to Berthier who was across the room, circling the man, Hastings, for the second time. His look said everything he needed to say -- if Berthier missed one minor detail or happening between the Englishmen, Desgas would flog him himself.

With that he casually took up a second flute of champagne and turned his back to the ballroom, strolling quite aimlessly down the lesser occupied hall that led to the staircase and other, unused chambers of the Shipwash Manor.

The silly girl had backed herself right into a trap, he thought, watching her take a seat in the alcove off the hall quite secluded from the rest of the guests. Such a fool, these Aristos! Had they no sense? His shadow crossed her lovely little face and a cruel, somewhat amused smile crossed his lips as she turned to look up at him. Leaning against the wall he held a flute of champagne out to her. "I am surprised, mademoiselle," he said, his heavily accented English sounding foreign to his own ears, "that your maman has let you wander so far from the nest?" Reaching down he picked up her refined hand and settled the small fingers around the base of the glass before returning to his full height. "Tell me," he said, switching over to his natural language and taking great care to speak with the dialect suiting her high-class upbringing. He had spent his entire youth slaving away for that class well beyond his reach -- he could mimick them well. "England does not appear to be treating you with the warm embrace her national hero promised, non?" He sipped the English spirit, savouring the sweet champagne that likely cost more per bottle than he earned each month.

"When it comes to help for refugees, you've come to the right place. Lady Shipwash is a determined Francophile," Andrew said cautiously. He suspected what she was asking, but had to be wary. Why had she chosen to ask the question of him? The Pimpernel worked in less direct ways - were footsteps drawing too close? He drew a deep breath at the reckless rush of sensations he experienced with each glance into her moonlit eyes. "Madame Cabarrus, what an enchantment you are."

He picked up one of her hands, bleached ivory by the moon, and kissed it lingeringly. Caressing it with his long fingers. Cradling it in his warm palm. All the while his gaze didn't leave her eyes; he was falling into the depths of them, inviting her into his mind. The hand that warmed the back of her neck was a surprise, and yet not - just the tiniest flash registered in her eyes as his fingers made contact with her tender flesh. She wanted him to kiss her - he read it in her acceptance of his touch.

He leaned in towards her and heard her skirts rustle as his thighs brushed the fabric. The hand on her neck massaged the muscles as the base of her neck, the other arm positioned beneath her and as she relaxed she dropped into his arms. Her eyes closed and her lips softened, parting slightly. At the moment his lips touched hers, he felt her arms circle his neck. Her passivity had vanished. She was eager - more than eager. Her full breasts pressed against his chest. One kiss followed another, the heat growing between them. His crescendoing ardour lent an edge of fierceness to his kiss, but she accepted that. She returned it.

The moonlight had grown brighter when she pulled out of his arms, leaving him breathless and dazed. There was only one purpose now, but Andrew was perplexed. He knew nothing of Lady Shipwash's gardens. Was there a gazebo, a picnic shelter, a grotto? They couldn't simply stretch out on the grass beneath a spreading tree on the chill September night - or could they?

As the little chit sipped the champagne, Desgas realised she was unaware of both his identity and his occupation. The Pimpernel had not warned her -- she was unsuspecting. That troubled him slightly. If she knew as much as they believed she might -- the man's very identity, for example -- she would have been on her guard -- prepared for men like Citoyen Paul Desgas. Could they have been mistaken about the little aristo? Or was she playing him, as that vixen Saint-Just played Chauvelin and all the men she held within her grasp. Even that dolt husband of hers... He drained his glass and gracefully bent down to set it on the floor, before slipping onto the seat beside her and resting his broad shoulders against the wall. There was only one way to find out.

"Oh, indeed, nothing was verbally promised, mademoiselle -- but I am talking about that glamorous picture they painted in our head. A safe haven England might be -- but the people are fearful and suspicious of foreigners -- we are only invited to parties such as these out of a public concern to seem politically correct -- and out of respect for that man who so bravely risked his life to bring us out of that blood-thirsty city." He studied her every movement, carefully monitoring her eyes, trying to read her every thought. She had mentioned her family. He would try to play on her woman's sympathy. "I came alone," he said, evasively, hoping to appear bitterly pained, but retaining that proud indifference he noted in every blue-blood he had made contact with through-out his life, "my father and two brothers were put to death by those rabid mongrels that have run rampant too long in our beautiful country." He did not mention the fact that he was actually referring to the aristocratic-reigning class and that his father and brothers had been sentenced to hang after stealing a half dozen horses out of the Marquis de LaRue's prized stable. "I live now only to revenge the wrongful deaths of my kin," he added passionately, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, "and I pray only that I may be given the opportunity to do so through that great English hero--" He took a quick, furtive glance around as if to satisfy himself that they were the only two in the hall, "the Scarlet Pimpernel." Again he checked to see that they were alone. "But these -- these fools," he finished, sitting back again and waving a careless hand towards the din of the ballroom behind them, "show me nothing but barely masked disdain and loathing. It is a miserable country!"

While Teresia's kisses had aroused Andrew to the brink of madness, her scrabbling fingers on his buttons brought him firmly back to earth. "No!" he moaned, pulling away, then grabbed her hands to hold them against his chest.

What had become of his intentions to remain faithful to the divine Miss du Tournai? It was going to be far more difficult to walk the road of chastity than he'd imagined! At the first glimpse of a white breast and melting eyes he'd nearly lost his resolve.

"Dear lady, I want you more than I can describe, but this mustn't continue. Your ardour is so Gallic, so French - but I fear I have been unjust in leading you on." Andrew could scarcely believe these words were his. "There is a young lady that I am honour-bound to respect and this way . . . this way lies ruin."

How could he explain to Madame Cabarrus that, while he was well used to satisfying his desires in quick, moonlit encounters, he now intended to live entirely within the more refined pleasures of the mind? Already she was standing with head cocked to one side, eyeing him suspiciously.

He regretted pushing her away and even as he kissed the backs of her hands he wished he dared continue. This tree - so concealing - he could lean her against it and lift her skirts. The urge to make love to her burned hot as he gazed into her eyes. How quick it would be! No one would know.

I would know, he told himself. To be unfaithful to pretty Anne, even once, would open the gates to chronic infidelity and then what would he have to offer her? He'd slept with so many women already; she could meet his light-o'-loves at every party in London and that would be embarrassment enough. He intended to reassure her with, "They are in the past, my love; I have been faithful to you from our first meeting." There was no other way he could win Suzanne's approval after the dissolute life he'd led.

The lady was vexed and Andrew understood her frustration well. Hadn't he, too, been led on by women who promised much and delivered nothing? "Please, I beg you, ask anything of me. Anything!" He was acutely embarrassed - perhaps she would imagine he was unable to stay the course. That he was already a limp sausage and hiding behind this lie of fidelity to his intended. He continued to hold her hands, continued kissing them as if this might offer a suitable alternative to a woman who'd desired . . . or had she? Now it sounded as if she'd imagined her compliance was payment in advance for the help he would provide her friends.

"Let me assure you, madame," he whispered hotly, "that I desire nothing from you whatsoever." Was this the way to cover his slip? "I have no intention of toying with you. Please, tell me what I might do for your friends. I will need full details of their location, their predicament, and their circumstances."

Madame Cabarrus sighed, drooping against the tree as if his words had provided relief from a tremendous anxiety. She must treasure these friends highly! Andrew cupped her chin in his palm and gazed into her lovely eyes. "Trust me, please. I must know everything that I might pass on the information to the man who will help your friends."

She practically hit the ceiling when the glass shattered on the floor. There was something threatening about his disregard for it that struck her to the bone. She thought that one round with Chauvelin was all she would have to endure tonight.

"�I have no sympathy for the likes of you -- or your family. More than one good, honest citizen has felt the lash of your father's whip -- sympathy cannot be given to traitors."

Thank goodness her hands were concealed by the fabric of her skirt or he would have seen them ball into fists at that comment about her father. Instead, she kept her face blank, and her manner calm, despite the raging of her heart. Traitor! HA! He knew nothing of the aristocracy she knew. Of course there were horrible people in the aristocracy of France, but that was true of every class, including peasants and clergy! 'Hungry mouths create hateful minds' her father had once told her. Perhaps the problems of France did rest on the shoulders of the upper class, but surely the blame could be distributed further than the privileged land owners.

"You know *his* name?" Suzanne peered at him. "Whom are you speaking of? There are many Englishmen here and I'm afraid that describing the man as 'he' will only confuse me further." She reached her right hand up and swept a few straggling hairs behind her ear. Everyone she knew in France was as good as dead in her mind. Chauvelin had all ready attempted to use this trick on her� she would not let his lackey use it as well. Suzanne was the daughter of a Compte, but being a rich female did not make her an entirely foolish one.

Chauvelin was silent as he absorbed the information. It was regrettable that the note wasn't signed, but it was suspicious enough to merit investigation. If his hunch was correct, Chauvelin would find not only the Scarlet Pimpernel in the stables at the hour, but also a good number of his lieutenants to boot. Any man found in that stable would be marked for death in France... in was possible to deal with some even on English soil. The knowledge would cripple the Pimpernel's League, halting their work... However, while presenting the Pimpernel's identity for the Committee of Public Safety would open all manner of doors for him, should he bring the man himself to justice that would insure his goals of standing among the great ones, being as loved as Danton, as revered as Robespierre. He could concieveably become the greatest hero of the revolution for bringing down France's greatest enemy. The Pimpernel might not be considered so prominent now, but with enough publicity it was possible to build him to such a height on his trial. All the more glory for the Republic... all the more glory for Chauvelin himself.

"A tryst, possibly..." Chauvelin humoured Marguerite. "Are you certain that this was the only note on Bathurst?" She nodded, not looking up at him - her head bowed ever so slightly. "You have done the Republic a great service... one that it should remember when judging your brother's case. If the Pimpernel is brought to justice, I assure you that Armand go free. I will share credit for his capture with you... the Republic remembers its heroes and with this capture you will be a hero." If possible Marguerite looked, if possible. even more dejected than ever. Damnation! What was wrong with her? He was giving her the opportunity to save her brother, even if it was he who put the boy in danger in the first place. She should be grateful.

"This melancholy of yours is most unbecoming, Marguerite, my dear," Chauvelin said plainly. "You may wish to delve into those reserves that gave you the courage to set up your colleague in order to denounce the Marquis de Saint-Cyr. The man is an aristocrat and a spy, just like Saint-Cyr, and equally deserving of his fate."

If any solace could be found in that treachery, it was that Armand might be spared, but then perhaps even he would condemn her for this. The thought sent her stomach churning - poor, poor unsuspecting Andrew! All the while Chauvelin offered to credit her in the monstrosity, as if one could take pride in so vile an act. What a tragedy that her beautiful homeland, her France, had become the embodiment of Dante's Inferno... and she the Judas. "I want no credit, I only want to preserve my brother's life." Did that lessen the crime? Anyone who's had a loved one in peril could justify desperate action taken on that loved one's behalf, but when souls are judged are the scales balanced so generously? For her brother, she not only hurt a great and noble man, but his followers as well, and all those he would have saved, had she not intervened. Had she thrown herself into the river it would have been a lesser crime than this.

"This melancholy of yours is most unbecoming, Marguerite, my dear," Chauvelin interjected, his voice barely a whisper. "You may wish to delve into those reserves that gave you the courage to... denounce the Marquis de Saint-Cyr." Saint-Cyr! The name brought forward the memory of another betrayal, but one not so premeditated. She was forever haunted by the result of her thoughtlessness... and now to be accused of staging that horror! "Neither are deserving," she said, stopping in her tracks and pulling her arm free of his so that Chauvelin awkwardly halted. He turned to confront her, eyes blazing as were her own. "You think I orchestrated the Marquis's death? I hate no man so much! Had I known the content I would have hurled it into the fire before allowing it to be used to take the lives of that poor family... and how could you bear it? You who have a child, how could you stand by and justify the murder of children? babies? You think me capable of that?" It took a great effort to keep her voice a whisper, but her body language drew a few stares. It was hurting her case to anger Chauvelin, and he appeared livid. "You set the conditions for my brother's life and I have complied... I ask for nothing more than my brother."

Marguerite watched Chauvelin stalk away, not moving or breathing until he was out of sight. It had been unwise to anger him - why had she insisted on rocking the boat? Especially now. She'd fought her better judgement, fought against her sense of decency and honor and chose life for Armand. Life! She was already damned, why now argue over the past? She should have swallowed foolish pride and kept her lips silenced. Was she now any better off than when she arrived? No, it was worse in fact. So much worse.

She walked aimlessly - her heart weighed down with despair, her soul weighed down with guilt. It felt as though at any moment the weight would crush her, impaird her ability to breath. The world seemed to come at her as colorful, blurred shapes beyond a dark veil and the laughter and chatter grew eerily distance. She needed to sit and breath away from the press of warm bodies and stiffling atmosphere. She saw a large dark opening, beyond the haze and remembered that a corridor ran parallel to the hall she was in, with many doors that opened on to the hall on one side, and passages to other parts of the house on the opposite. She'd seen lovers duck into the hall, too impatient to to find the staircase to the rooms upstairs. It was here that she fled hoping to find an seat where she catch her breath, and was rewarded with the discovery of an unoccupied cushioned seat just within the door. She dropped inelegantly into the cushions and fanned herself, tried controlling the rate of her breathing until the darkness faded and the world appeared in crisp colors and distinct forms. The despair remained.

It had been a long time since she had prayed - really prayed - and now she found herself praying in her heart of hearts that Armand would be safe and well, that the Scarlet Pimpernel, he who was perhaps the sole good in so cruel a world, would once again elude those who sought to do him harm. The prayers seemed at odds, but she pray all the same, hoping the heavenly father in his infinite wisdom would have compassion and save two good men, despite the odds against them. It couldn't be so hopeless.

After a time she rose and wandered down the corridor, occasionally finding an alternative route to avoid disturbing writhing shadows. Giggles, the murmer of inconsequential absurdities, left little to the imagination. No point in destroying the happiness of others with her misery... or was it that she feared finding Percy there in the shadows. The corridor turned sharply, as Marguerite prepared to followed the corridor in this new direction, she stopped at the sound of glass shattering, the music of the shard skidding along the floor. A man spoke in her native tongue, his tone intense but the words too low to be clearly determined, then a woman, young from the sound of her. Marguerite took a step back - an �migr� or one of Chauvelin's and she was of no mood to face either. But even as she backed away from the conversation something in the woman's voice seemed familiar.

"Whom are you speaking of? There are many Englishmen here and I'm afraid that describing the man as 'he' will only confuse me further." The words were spoken loud enough for Marguerite to hear, still voice sounded familiar enough to draw Marguerite back to the conversation, what little she could hear.

"... the Scarlet Pimpernel..." The man voice rose to an audible level only with the pronouncement of these words, but it was enough to captivate all of Marguerite's attention.

His eyes were burning and his face was so close to Suzanne's she could feel the heat dissipating into the air. He was desperate to discover what she knew or if she knew anything at all.

"If you will have acquired all the information you need by this very morning, what could I possibly tell you?" She said evasively. The citizen was becoming weary of her indirect responses, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by Suzanne. "I have always found Parisians to be impatient, a trait that I, myself, possess. It is an exhausting desire." Her hands shook less now, whether from her rage or fear subsiding, she knew not. "The� demand for satisfaction from the Revolutionary government has never been quelled, nor will it ever be. I have no information that could further your cause Citoyen. Find some other pawn to push across the chess board. I am useless to you. Everyone I left in Paris is as good as dead and I have previously mourned the loss." Pushing herself off the bench, the leather soles of her silk shoes made the shattered glass crunch beneath her feet. She took a few steps away from him, curtseyed and quickly made her way out of the hall. She had never in her life wanted to leave a place so desperately. Paris would have been more inviting than Shipwash Manor had been. Two minions for the Committee of Public Safety had all ready questioned her and she'd scarce been there an hour! She may have had more peace in San Lazar for all the peril she'd faced thus far. How is it that England seemed so much more dangerous? If only she could take a carriage away. There was no hope in finding Msr. Ffoulkes anywhere�

The light from the ballroom landed on her face and she lifted her left hand to shield her eyes. Suddenly there was a hand in her right hand. She quickly freed herself and took a step back.

"�Margot?" She whispered. The sweet face of her friend peered back at her. Suzanne quickly grabbed the hand she had just wrenched from hers and pulled her friend to her feet. "I've been looking for you all evening!" She rambled, walking as quickly as she could to distance herself from the man whom Chauvelin had sent to interrogate her. Stupid fool. No Englishman wore black outside of a funeral!

Once they had cleared the hallway, Suzanne turned back to her friend. "I have had nothing but bad news this evening. You are like a bright star in the darkest of skies! We must go somewhere to talk, I've so much to tell you!" She leaned in and placed a sound kiss on each of Marguerite's cheeks. "Dieu, I have missed you!"

Percy scanned the figures in the ballroom - dancers, minglers, a few wall-flowers. To one side of him he overheard a stilted conversation. "Wonderful party, this. Incredibly cold for the time of year."

"Is it? Cold, I mean."

Percy blinked. Blinked again. Strangers. He recognised Sir Andrew returning with a woman from a promenade on the terrace - in the dark. Tsk, tsk. How typically Andrew. Percy watched the errant breeze lift the ruffles on the woman's skirts and toss them playfully. Saw the woman face Andrew and grin . . . and he recognised her. The Spanish emigre. Percy glanced around quickly, certain he'd seen the little du Tournai somewhere about . . . no, that had been earlier in the evening. He read alertness in Andrew's stiff bearing. Wariness. What could it mean? Percy's first thought was to turn and leave before he was spotted; to let Andrew deal with whatever was making him nervous - then, he paused. Rethought. There were too many unsettled elements at play; far better, he decided, to intervene.

Imperiously he strode up to the couple, meeting them just beyond the doors. "What say you, Ffoulkes?"

Sir Andrew looked up, startled. "Percy," he said, sounding uncertain. "You did say you'd put in an appearance, but you've been deuced slow in doing so. I'd assumed you were lost on the moors or in the forest."

"What?" Andrew was looking dazed. Wondering what on earth Percy was playing at.

"And it is you once more, Madame, uh . . . you were introduced to me in the company of some other English reprobate," Percy said vaguely, for although he remembered who had introduced him, he'd forgotten the woman's name. Marquise something. An emigre.

"The Marquise de Fountenay has been telling me about important friends . . ."

"Of course she has," Percy interrupted. "Everyone who arrives on our soil seems to have left someone behind who is in peril of their life. Don't we hear such anecdotes over every cup of tea or glass of sherry? All the people terrified for their lives. I must say, madame, that I for one am powerfully glad to be English!" Percy made a curt bow and breezed away. Kissed off, Andrew thought, watching Percy leave and flabbergasted over the performance he'd just witnessed. What could it all mean?

"Forgive him," Andrew began to mouth in Teresia's ear, "he's not usually . . ."

*Like that*, he finished in his head. The only time Percy performed out of character was when there was danger nearby. What danger? Andrew began to look around at his surroundings, at the crush of people. Percy had circled the ballroom, ending up back at the door where he and Teresia had entered the ballroom. Andrew watched Percy step through the door into the night.

"Pardon me," Andrew murmured to Teresia; quickly he reached the door and followed Percy into the garden.

The sudden appearance of Sir Percy had struck her dumb. She hadn't even had the time or presence of mind to reply that, had he left friends or family in a French prison, he would not consider it a laughing matter. Her cherry mouth was parted in silent protest and her eyes wide with a mortification which, heaven knew, she had no real cause to feel. She did not see Sir Percy leave the room for she had her back to the door, but she was aware that Sir Andrew had spotted someone over her shoulder as he bent to whisper his apologies for his friend's behaviour. She turned to see Sir Andrew disappear through the open door into the gardens.

Not stopping to think, she moved keeping close to the wall, so that she wouldn't be seen from without. She could see Sir Andrew in shadow, walking hurriedly across the lawn and infront of him another faint figure was there for a split second before vanishing from view into the shrubbery. Teresia knew she had to follow. Light streamed from the house into the garden and she would be vulnerable until she could get into the shadows, but finding another exit would take to long. The pair would be lost. She kept one eye on Sir Andrew's back and one on the ballroom, to ensure she was not noticed by the other guests. A few moments later the gavotte reached its climax and the assembled company was applauding the tired dancers and looking to swap partners for the next minuette. Sir Andrew had nearly vanished into the shrubbery himself. It was now or never! Teresia took a deep breath, crossed herself and darted out of the ballroom, into the welcoming shadows. Slowly, she began to follow Sir Andrew to his rendezvous.

Marguerite shrank back into the shadows as the crush of glass shards under foot and the frou-frou of swishing skirts alerted her that the woman, and possibly her companion, approached. In an instant, a mass of cream silk and golden curls, darted passed her. A thin willow figure that could be none other than Suzanne (or could it?), The girl paused a brief second started by the shift in light � enough time for Marguerite to snatch at the girl�s hand, in the hopes of seeing her face. The girl started and wretched her hand in an abrupt, unexpected gesture that unbalanced Marguerite, who caught a hold of the wall for balance. The girl turned and her large eye grew impossibly larger in surprise. "�Margot?" Suzanne gasped and Marguerite�s heart swelled with relief. It was her! Here and safe in England at last � thank god!

Marguerite passively let Suzanne pull her back into the light of the party, wordlessly listened to her dear friend�s chatter on � for the first time in weeks she was overwhelmed by the relief that one of those she loved best of at was safe and well. Chauvelin had told her that Suzanne had been brought to England, but Marguerite dared not allow herself to believe� but now that the proof was before her she had not words � what words were there?

��I've so much to tell you!" Suzanne went on. God, how much she had changed! Marguerite thought back to that queer conversation she�d intercepted. It was impossible to believe that Suzanne, her shy, timid little friend Suzanne, would ever speak in the manner she had just heard. Suzanne could scarcely speak in front of strangers much less dress a man down. Since Marguerite had left Paris, Suzanne had grown so much.

�Come,� Marguerite said, once she�d recovered from her initial shock. She lead Suzanne away from the ballroom, head for the terrace leading out to the garden and stopped on the threshold � it was far too cold for either of them to venture outside � instead selecting a neglected corner nearby, where she and Suzanne might speak and observe any who might venture too close. Before Suzanne had settled herself, Marguerite caught her in a quick, heart-felt embrace � such was her relief. �You are the proof that the dear lord answers prayers! But tell me, how is it that you are here?�

She blinked several times, making no effort to hide that she was carefully choosing her words, then responded.

"Papa arranged for our emigration." Her mouth opened to tell Marguerite about sailing from Calais to Dover, then Chauvelin's earlier question caused her to go mute. `I trust your family crossed from Calais to Dover� that would be the shortest and most logical trip�?' She closed her mouth and gave an uneasy smile to Margot, their eyes meeting briefly. "We sailed the channel. Father has arranged for us to stay in London for the moment." She cleared her throat and gave Margot a meaningful look before continuing. "England has been kind to us. We are very fortunate." Her eyes trailed to the floor as a couple in burgundy left the garden and passed by their location near the door. "There is not much I can tell you. I slept through most of the journey." Looking at her friend for the first time in what seemed like forever, Suzanne began to notice something different. "Margot?" She asked with concern. "Is everything all right? I don't know, perhaps I'm being foolish, but your eyes� there is no merriment in them. Please, tell me what has happened to make you look so sad�" She took her friends hand in hers and gently rubbed the back. Suzanne knew very well that if she didn't feel safe confiding in her dearest friend in the midst of this party, it was likely that Margot wouldn't feel comfortable speaking about any of her troubles either�

Marguerite�s attention hung on every word that issued from Suzanne�s pretty lips � the story she told did not match Chauvelin�s account. Was he wrong? But then Marguerite sensed that Suzanne's hesitation - the averted eyes, the pregnant pauses... there was something that Suzanne was hiding. Something she could not or would not say. Had someone warning her against the treacherous Lady Blakeney� had Suzanne believed them? The idea chilled her.

Percy with his secrets and his affairs, Armand with whatever scheme had earned him the suspicion of Chauvelin�s colleagues, and now Suzanne� Was she not even trusted by those she loved? No, those were foolish thoughts. Percy's mistrust was poisoning her sense of perspective - making her seeing thing that weren't true. Marguerite and Suzanne had known each other for ages� if Suzanne was holding back then it must be with good cause. Perhaps Suzanne would reveal the true when they were alone. In private. Far from this hellish party and the crowd of strangers� She almost forgot why she needed to find Suzanne that night.

�Much has happened since I left France, mon petit chere,� Marguerite confided, choosing her words carefully and trying to hide the emotions that came bubbling up. It wouldn�t do to break down into a fit of tears here in full view of everyone. �I admit life has not turned out how I expected it� but this is not the time or place to speak of such things. You must visit me tomorrow at my home in Richmond� promise you will.�

"Strange indeed," Marguerite agreed. "These are strange times we live in... mon dieu! There were moments when I thought I mind never seen you again... if Armand hadn't written me..." Armand! In her excitement and relief she'd almost forgotten that there was more she needed to convey to Suzanne before anything came up to seperate them. "Please come as soon as you can get away, there is so much that I need to tell you that shouldn't be said here..." at this she looked around, expecting any minute that Chauvelin or one of his lackeys might be near, that he have somehow figured out what she planned to do and would try to stop her. "You should wear blue... something light, like this..." she gestured to the dress she wore. "You always look so beautiful in blue," she added at Suzanne's quizzical _expression. "And you should wear a thick cloak, the wind off the river can chill a body through at times." Suzanne's eyes _expression her natural confusion, Marguerite took the girl's hands and gave her a look that matters would be explained in time. It had been ages since they had last seen each other and in that time both women had changed, Suzanne was more of a woman now, not so much physically but there was a difference.

"Isn't it strange where life takes us... I had heard you were in England and yet for some reason I couldn't entirely accept it until I saw you for myself," she was making no sense. She knew she was making no sense, but the things she wanted most to say were not things she could say here and now. She wanted to confess everything, but couldn't... it would have to wait for the morning when Suzanne would come to see her for perhaps the last time.