The letter was small. Much smaller than the one she had sent. Apparently, the detective had no fear of it falling into the wrong hand. Well, he could probably take more steps to ensure its safety than Marguerite could. Still, she did not worry about being watched as much now; Percy was home, and Chauvelin would not dare try a move so long as the ox like English mouse was around.

“Lady Blakeney,

“Dawson and I shall attend, disguised. I shall make contact with you there. Do not send another letter, for safety’s sake.

“Basil.”

Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief. Lord Digby’s ball was tomorrow night, and Percy would remain for it. He’d never dare risk missing such an “important social event.” Part of Marguerite wanted not to go; she wanted to crawl into her husband’s arms and stay there. She was so weary, and there was so little left within her.

But Percy was no longer the kind of man who’s arms she could remain safe in. And she had taken the necessity of public appearances when she’d married him. She tore the note into shreds, having nothing to burn it with, and tossed it into the ashes of the fire place. She smoothed back an unruly auburn curl, and decided to go downstairs to see what her husband was doing. She didn’t know why, for it hurt her to look at him. He wasn’t what he used to be…..

“Ah, here’s the lovely wife now!” came his voice, full of it’s customary flippancy, as she descended the stairs. She noticed that he was visiting with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, one of his dearest friends, though he possessed a few more brains than Sir Percy.

“Good afternoon, Sir Percy. Good afternoon, Sir Andrew,” she said courteously. “Have I interrupted something?”

“Not at all, m’dear,” the handsome mouse responded. “Andrew and I were just discussing horses, ‘tis all.”

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Sir Andrew,” she sighed with a smile. “I trust you will be staying for lunch?”

“If you are the one to extend the invitation, then absolutely, Lady Blakeney.”

“You are most welcome here at any time.”

“Yes, absolutely!” agreed her husband.

Sir Percy Blakeney was extremely tall for any mouse. He rose above his wife by a few centimeters, though he did that with most. His fur was a creamy blonde, and his eyes were a lovely blue, though they constantly had a half awake, lazy expression in them. Many women, including his wife, agreed that he was quite handsome. Of course, he was made more so by the large quantities of money he had. He was strongly built, much like an ox, muscle lining his body. He and his wife were the centerpiece of fashionable London society. Whilst most agreed that Lord Blakeney was little more than a well bred fop, and a complete idiot, the lucky man had made quite a catch with his choice of wife. All of London agreed that she was lovely, charming, talented. The list went on.

Marguerite often lay awake – alone – at night and wondered if she hadn’t simply married Percy for his money after all. Was she lying to herself when she thought she had loved him? No, if that were the case, her heart would not be suffering this great, aching loneliness and longing for him. She remembered they’re engagement, how wonderful he’d been. The kisses he’d freely bestowed, the embrace that had protected her. She longed for the memories to die and leave her in peace, which made it plain to her that she did, in fact, love her husband. If she hadn’t loved him, then she would have…

No! Better not to think of that.

“Let us all have tea in the garden!” suggested Blakeney. “It will be quite a little picnic, hm, Margot?”

Margot; she’d nearly forgotten his affectionate little pet name for her, mostly from lack of use. She gazed up at him, remembering things…..

“Ah, a splendid idea!” agreed Andrew. “Percy, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the ball….”

“Lord, yes, the ball! I’d nearly forgotten the thing. It’s a good thing you reminded me, Andrew. Or else I’d not have time to pick out something to wear. Ah, now there’s a challenge…. So many fine, fascinating new things I just picked up on my last trip…. Perhaps the green – ah, no, that would never do!”

The brief ray of sun light that had penetrated the darkness of Lady Blakeney’s soul was quickly snuffed out; fashion. That was practically the only thing Percy ever talked about. Fashion, horses, all petty, foppish, idiotic things. The three mice began to walk from the parlor to the garden, Marguerite trailing just a little bit. She sighed and locked herself into her own little world, blocking out the sound of their meaningless chatter. Percy had turned out to be no where near who she thought he’d been. In Paris, he’d been exciting, and worshiping. He’d adored Marguerite, followed her like his own shinning star. She realized all too late that she had abused the privilege. He’d placed his heart right there on the stone’s in front of her. “Let me be your husband, and I’ll forever follow you, for you are the only thing worth living for,” he’d promised her. Partly out of malice for another, partly out of carelessness, partly out of love for a brother, and partly out pride, she had mercilessly crushed the noble, loving heart of the man she’d married.

That awful fight, on their very wedding night, had been what had done it. He’d demanded truth from her for the first time ever, when before he would have taken whatever she would have given him and believed it till he died. He’d demanded truth, but out of horror, was unwilling to hear the explanations she gave to him. And she, on her own part, demanded obedience and absolute devotion from him. If he loved her as much as he said he did, he ought not to listen to what people say, and simply take her for her word, to simply lay down like a lap dog and follow at his mistress’ heels. She’d demanded adoration, but out of pride, was unwilling to try and understand how much her words were killing him.

They both demanded that the other throw off their mask, but were so unwilling to take their own off.

And so, on her very wedding night, she became estranged from her husband; they slept in different sides of the house, barely spoke, and when they did, it was all trivial. Percy’s idiocy, which may have always been there, but had been masked by his worshipping love, was driving Marguerite to sorrow and insanity. She thought she had married a noble, brave, genius soul, and had instead chained herself to a fool. For his own part, Percy had thought he’d wed a faultless, sweet angel, and found himself in love with a scheming, treacherous mortal. Maybe they’d expected too much from each other. Maybe love had blinded them to the true self. Bitterly, Marguerite decided that this was so. There had never truly been the Percy Blakeney she fell in love with. She’d merely married a complete and utter idiot, proving Chauvelin right….

Chauvelin! No, she did not want to think of him. The very name sent a shiver of fear down her spine, made her want to be sick.

Still, his terrible words replayed in her mind a thousand times: “The fop doesn’t love you! What terrible misstep have you taken, Marguerite?”

“Marguerite?”

Percy’s voice awoke her from her nightmare, and her head snapped up to see him looking down at her, worriedly. She had not even noticed that he’d taken her arm and wrapped it around his own, his paw resting upon hers, helping to leading her down the garden path. It was well that he had, for she was so lost in thought that she would have probably walked straight into the rose bushes.

“Are you alright?” he asked concernedly.

“N-no,” she admitted. “I mean yes, just slightly tired. I have a bit of a headache.” She placed the free delicate fingers to her temple and closed her eyes. It was true, she did have a headache, as well as a heartache.

“Perhaps we should go inside?” he questioned, turning from the path they’d been following.

“No, it’s fine. You and Sir Andrew enjoy lunch. I think I will go inside and lay down for a bit.”

Was it her imagination, or did his blonde paw tighten protectively about her own auburn one? “Should I have something sent up for you?”

“No, thank you, I do not think I could stomach anything.”

“You shan’t be eating, then?” His eyes flickered to his waiting guest, and added to him “I’ll be but a moment, Andrew, let me take Marguerite inside.”

“No, it’s fine,” she insisted. “Stay with your guest. I can manage by myself.”

With that, she began walking back in the direction of the house, feeling slightly faint. Still, the mouse dogged her steps for a few paces.

“Will you have something later?” he asked her, his tone pleading with the worry in it.

“I’ll come down for supper,” she promised, not bothering to turn and face him. At last, he stopped, the gravel only indicating one set of steps.

“Yes, of course. Good day, then, madame.”

He watched her until she disappeared from view, before sighing dejectedly and turning back to his friend.

“It’s torture,” he confided, rubbing his face with his paws. “It’s madness.” Andrew watched his dear friend with pity.

“I wish there were a way I could help you.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” he grumbled. “Well, it’s just as well she went back inside. What was it you were telling me before she came down?” Blakeney’s eyes no longer had that half awake expression to them. Nay, he looked fully alert, and quite serious. His jaw was set, his manner quite altered.

“The Comte de Gorbeau,” Andrew reminded, also serious. “Antony and Armand have managed to get him to Calais, and-”

“They can manage?” he asked. A trip to Calais was not what he needed at the moment.

“Yes,” responded Andrew hesitantly. “But…. Well, it’s the damndest thing, Percy!”

Anxiously, the other asked what the matter was.

“I think you need to tell Tony to take some time off, because he’s becoming paranoid; He thinks that they’re being watched. Followed, even!” Percy’s manner became drastic, dire. “Nothing’s happened, has it?”

“Well, no, not yet. They’re not being touched! Really, it might be nothing, Percy. It might not be worth the trouble to worry over it. Antony’s always been one of the most cautious of the bunch.”

“Yes, but it might very well be something….” Pondered the other. “Write back to him as soon as possible. Tell him that if he thinks he can make it across the channel without delay, then to do so with the most possible speed, and to just take extra precautions. I’ll discuss the problem with him when they arrive.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Andrew, preparing to leave. “I’ll go right away.”

“Good. I am running out of excuses to tell Marguerite.”

“Quiet,” Basil hissed, managing to keep very in character throughout the last hour. “Another guest is entering.”

Indeed there was, for Lord Digby – a rather portly, grey mouse – whizzed past to greet them.

“Citizen Chauvelin, you are quite welcome here!” was his enthusiastic greeting, steering the latest guest through the crowd of people towards a table. The ambassador looked like he felt somewhat uncomfortable at being pounced upon at his arrival and pushed through a crowd of English mice. “It’s a small little thing, hardly worth your trouble, I’m sure, but I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Eet ees quite my pleasure, I assure you, Lord Digby,” he responded in his thick French accent, though not very enthusiastically, taking a glance at his surroundings. He seemed disgusted at the relative luxury of Digby, though he hated all things English.

“I’m afraid you’re a little late for dinner, but I shall have a servant fetch you a plate.” Digby was about to motion to Dawson to bring the Frenchman a plate, but the citizen stopped him.

“Merci, but I am not hungry.” So used to a society of equal work, he still could not stand being waited upon. Four years of hard work in France, and the rest of the world could simply carry on like this? No, they’d sat up and taken notice, he knew, for eyes kept on shifting in his direction and he could hear whispered words. He’d been invited for two reasons: The most polite was that he was an ambassador, and should be treated as an honored guest. The second was because London craved gossip, and his attendance at a party could fuel many a juicy story for days. So, he was to be put on show? Let them, he silently declared within himself, sitting erect, nose in the air, looking haughtily down at the rest of those British idiots. Let them see the pride he had in his nation, how it had risen out of the ashes that the monarchy had put it in. Those British fools still worked under a monarchy, thought it better than the French way. Morons. One French head was better than twenty English ones any day, which was why he was one agent against twenty members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Ah, yes, the Pimpernel. He must listen carefully to all conversations, start some, if he had to. Of course, he’d have to suffer through the mind numbing gossip, but it would be worth it if he could strain a little of the truth from the fiction. He’d wait all night if he had to, but he would –

A distraction caught his pale blue eye, and his head snapped in that direction, heedless to the fact that Digby was still prattling on about some utter nonsense.

Marguerite.

The oh-so clever French ambassador hadn’t the faintest idea that one of those “British idiots,” was watching him. The cleverest of all the British idiots, in fact.

“Dawson,” whispered Basil, “I want you to trail Lady Blakeney if you can. Do you see her?” the detective asked, pointing her out. She stood out only because a proverbial mob surrounded her; the bees to the honey. “I think our French friend may want to speak with her. I will try and hear their conversation, but I want you listening too. Two pairs of ears are better than one, yes?” With that, he gave the slightly confused doctor a shove in the right direction.

Making himself as inconspicuous as possible, Basil snuck to the table where the ambassador sat, still erect, but not half so focused on what he was there for. His eyes trailed the other French mouse as she occasionally moved to speak with a different person, studying her as she smiled, laughed, spoke. Only someone who knew Marguerite Blakeney would have seen the strain showing in her face, the dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights worrying. Smirking, the crafty mouse sat a little back in his chair, giving a satisfied sigh. So, now he finally knew the arrow had struck home. He’d always had suspicions, but this proved it. Good. He’d have to arrange a little heart to heart with Citizen St. Just that evening.

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