...the blade was released. A girl screamed as he looked on in horror. The child was silenced. He'd been so close. Philip stared at his hands, holding the severed head of a four-year-old child, blood drenching his clothes...

The man awoke with a start, jolting the slumbering figure in his arms. What the...? She turned around, snuggling her cheek against his chest, sighed, and mumbled something. The activities of the last few hours returned to haunt him, pleasantly. Oh yes, Philip thought, how could he forget? A satisfied smile crept onto his unshaven face as the girl twined her leg with his in her sleep. A cramping muscle caught his attention for a moment, but he decided to ignore it in favor of letting the pretty blonde keep her limbs where they lay. The baronet had almost forgotten just how much he enjoyed being in just that position. The lady had certainly put him through his paces. Now if he could just remember her name...

The temporary discomfort quite forgotten as her resting body shifted slightly in just the right way, Philip closed his eyes, trying to list all the female French names he could muster in his head, hoping he'd recognize the proper one, if he came upon it.

Marie....no....Juliet....Suzette....Brianne...no, no, no... Rosalie... Michelle... Charlotte... Claudia... no, no, no, Claudia was German, and raven-haired, with the most remarkable... As his mind rambled on, a finger absently traced the curve of her spine in a gentle, repetitive caress. Madeleine...? The girl shifted again, interrupting his musings with a happy sigh. Justine. That was it. He was sure. He couldn't see her face, but he could swear he recognized that very intimate touch he was priviledged with at that moment as Justine's.

Yes. He closed his eyes again, giving the slumbering beauty a slight squeeze. This small gesture of affection startled her out of her dreams. Her head collided with his chin, extracting a grunt from the man. "Francois?" The name escaped her as her eyes opened and she looked up.

Philip rubbed his chin. "Sebastian." he corrected, seeing his own error. The mynx was not Justine at all. Why were both chambermaids in this place blondes? He inwardly groaned. She was biting her lip in embarassment, her cheeks flushing a telling red. He chuckled, giving her a wink. "Not to worry, Denise. I won't tell your Francois, if you won't."

His little jibe did not have the effect of relief he had hoped. She openly laughed at him. One of the baronet's eyebrows rose. "Isabelle." She corrected. "Denise is my sister." The other brow joined the first in surprise, his mouth agape for a moment, then his shock yielded a grin. Bloody twins! They'd been working him in shifts. He laughed at himself. No wonder he was so knackered. Isabelle tossed him quite the devilish smirk. "You know Francois is my husband, monsieur, but you haven't told me who this Danielle is..."

A groan escaped him as a hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose. Bugger it! Was it at all possible to banish thoughts of that bloody violent little blue-stocking of a female?!

After days of no word, Philip could stand the confinement, though be it with lovely company, in the small room at the posting inn no longer. Orders he had, but orders be hanged. Every man had a right to fresh air now and again. The baronet had his meager possessions crammed into a sack before the sun reached its peak, and was presently stepping out the front door of the place where he had whiled away the days with entertainment from the lovely ladies inhabiting it. He was sure their chores had suffered great neglect with his appearance. Philip had quite forgotten he had ever set foot in the inn before, but his memory would not fade so quickly this time. Twins. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he made his way to the stables.

Walking was still a bit awkward. The limp he had gained from his last visit with Lady Sinclaire was a bit more pronounced after this somewhat extreme exercise. The young baronet had also come to rely on the cane he had acquired after the incident.

The accessory, however, remained in Chilton's possession. They had parted company in Austria, where Philip had left Lady Wexton in his friend's care, after the three of them had gained new passports from some former 'business associates' of the baronet's. Philip's lips twitched at the thought of what sort of expressions those two would be wearing, when they awoke in the bowels of a ship bound for the colonies. If they ever regained consciousness, that is. The man absently rubbed his still somewhat sore knuckles. He had a...violent...distaste for the likes of men who would conduct themselves in such a manner towards a Lady. A frown creased his brow for a moment, then he dismissed the image from his mind as he removed a scraggly mule from the stall where he had left her. Danielle was safe now. There was no need to dewll on the happenings in Austria. He didn't have time to ponder them as they occured, though it seemed now that all he had was time. Philip sighed, and patted the animal lightly between the eyes. The least he could do was to exercise the beast a little, and stretch his own limbs, before returning to his temporary prison. If the ladies had their way, he'd never see the light of day again. Another chuckle escaped him. He'd best keep to the road between the inn and Paris, in case his luck decided this to be the day for him to be called into action.

So he walked. After about an hour, he had trained his limp away. Though occasional twinges still sang down his leg, Philip felt quite a bit more limber. The cane, though the perfect compliment to his usual sort of garb, would have ruined the ambiance of his current apparel. The clothes he tended his garden in at Glynde Place when none of society were about suited just fine in this situation. Hardly a soul who knew him would even think to recognize the baronet in such filth, nevermind the French, who hadn't laid eyes on Sir Philip in his normal finery, nor even knew him to be in the country since the day he had shared the square with the fresh corpse of Saint-Cyr. The man's step faltered, as it had that moment...

A horse sang past the farm-hand pulling his beast of burden along behind him at the side of the road, hurrying away from the city. Philip stopped, turned to give the mule some oats from his pocket, and watched the rider head straight for the inn he had vacated not too long ago. The baronet frowned, turning back towards his starting-point. An ill-secured saddle-bag landed in the road, not too far ahead, spilling papers all over the dusty road. Philip shook his head. An ill-experienced courier...the messenger was not sent for him. The baronet easily returned the contents to the bag, and slung it onto his mule's back. After some time, and just as he palmed another handful of oats, letting the animal devour the treat, about three more such hurried riders passed him by. Philip's brows rose, and he followed, at his previous, unhurried pace, as not to arise suspicion, though curiousity seemed want to burn him alive.

At the inn, the last party of riders once again departed in a hurry. Their curses hung in the air as Philip slowly stabled his beast once again. One of them stared in his direction as he removed the satchel the other man had dropped, and placed it before the animal as though it were fodder. The baronet gave the man a nod, and raised his fist in the air, "� bas les aristos!" He growled in their direction.

The group echoed him, and the man who had stared was apparently satisfied. He inclined his head slightly towards Philip. "Citoyen," and to the rest he shouted, "En Avant!" The baronet was left watching them disappear in a distant cloud of dust. He frowned after them. They must not have found what they were looking for. Pondering, he pulled some hay over the discarded bag to hide it from view, secured the mule in its stall, and returned to the inn, where emptiness greeted him.

Without ceremony, the baronet entered the kitchen, and exited again, with a tankard of sour wine, and a relatively clean cup. Having a seat near the fire, he imbibed in the drink, and waited for events to unfold, explaining the strange happenings of this day. 'He who knows patience knows peace.' his brain mocked. Bloody hell, how he hated waiting.

Denise -- or was it Isabelle? He couldn't be sure -- soon rushed down the stairs, and straight to the kitchen without so much as a glance in Philip's direction. The baronet heaved a sigh, grabbed his now empty tankard, and made to follow the girl. When he reached to open the door, it nearly hit him, and he found her struggling with a small basin of scalding water. She stopped short, and he sidestepped what spilled over the rim, and hissed, steaming onto the floor.

"Did you need something?" the maid asked, sounding rather put upon.

Philip turned the empty tankard upside down.

She rolled her eyes. "You got it yourself the first time. What's to keep you from refilling it?"

"You're standing in my way, armed with hot water." he pointed out.

Denise unceremoniously passed her burden to him. "Give us a hand then." She left him standing there for a moment, as she went for some clean strips of linnen from the kitchen. He raised an eyebrow as she sped back up the stairs, then turned around "well, come along." Philip followed, musing how she would react were she to learn that he was a part of the English aristocracy. He shook his head at the thought. She'd probably lynch him.

Her path led to his rooms. The baronet frowned. On the bed, surrounded by the fussing women, lay a beaten man. Philip set down the water on the table next to the bed, eyeing the torn clothes. The stitching, the cut...this was a footman from...he couldn't quite make out the livery, but it was familiar. He'd seen it rush past him little more than an hour ago. This must be the messenger who dropped the satchel. His bruising suggested that the other five hadn't found what they had been looking for. That bag must be bloody important...

The baronet was pulled out of his musings by Justine sending him to fetch the salve that the other girl had forgotten, and some wine for their patient. He gave them a frown, that was all but ignored, and went to refill the tankard, which was still in his grasp, for the stranger who was presently bleeding on his sheets.

The baronet was more and more of the mind that whatever missive this courier had been in the process of delivering was quite important. The baronet had no wish to let anyone find the bag he had left in the mule's stall. As he seemed to be a farm-hand of some sort, quite frequently dealing with the welfare of animals, the inn-keeper had no objections, nor found it odd that he insisted to looking after his own beast. In fact, it was a welcome request, and the man offered him payment in doing so for his two horses as well. The baronet readily accepted. There was a pretty little filly in the inn-keeper's possession he wanted a closer look at. At first glance she seemed a fine animal, but looks could be deceiving, after all. She might be worth purchasing, he thought.

The work was nothing new to Philip, and it suited him well. It was good to be occupied with something other than sitting on his noble backside, balancing the accounts for his estate for a change. A large blue eye watched him, as he put aside the pitchfork. As he had suspected, the mare was of good quality, rarely seen in such surroundings. His keen eye judged her to be quite unique. On closer inspection, she proved to be of a sweet disposition, as well, though she did display some temper. The image of Lady Wexton atop the mare entered his mind uninvited, causing Philip to smile at how the little beauty would compliment her.

The man shook his head, as he pulled a cube of sugar out of his pocket. A snowy white muzzle immediately nuzzled his palm, taking the sweet, and crunched happily. Philip laughed as she went for his pocket, seeking more. "Don't be greedy, you," he gently pushed her away, patting her large, muscular neck. This one would give his Lucifer a run for his carrots. Wonderful breeding stock, he thought. The picture of little black and white flecked, sugar-craving hellbeasts pranced around in his mind, and he chuckled, as he made his way back to his little scraggly mule, and the saddle-bag he had been dying to inspect the contents of since the early afternoon. Philip mentally noted to return at some point to purchase the mare.

Though welcome, the labor was taxing. Philip lowered his sore body onto the ground, in a corner of the stall that wasn't readily seen by anyone entering the stables, but from which he would immediately know, should someone try to sneak up on him. Here he finally opened the bag, and sifted through its contents in search of what might make a murder of apparently revolutionary French men beat a courier into relinquishing it.

The agile man hoisted himself onto the cross-beam above the little mare's stable to secure the saddle-bag well out of sight. None would think to look for it there. Whatever important it still contained would have to wait for a later date. Philip stuffed the leaflet, which had suspended all other thought for the time being, into his pocket, left a decent purse in the horse's stead, and sped towards the city.

The baronet's pulse pounded in his ears to accompany the rythm of his mount's hooves. If what he had read in that bit of propaganda managed to do what it was very obviously designed for, there was no time to lose.

His orders to wait were void now. That little scrap of paper had changed the entire game-plan. Blakeney must know, before all was lost. Else anyone near the prisons of Paris would meet their maker sooner than expected. There was no guarantee that even the best disguise would be immune when facing a crazed mob.

Though he liked the boy, it looked like Saint-Just would have to be sacrificed. Philip's frown deepened as the wind conspired with the dust kicked up by the mare's hooves to blast the skin straight off his face. They could not afford to lose half the league, nevermind the Pimpernel himself, to the murderous whims of Paris. Better one man's life be forfeit...