That is to say, he had just nodded off when Lord Edward Hastings’ foot collided with his head, jarring him awake.
“Damn it, Hastings,” he snarled, shoving the brown paw away, waking the mouse, “get your bloody foot out of my face.”
Hastings quickly scrambled back into a sitting position, yawning. “I’m terribly sorry, Percy,” he apologized.
Blakeney waved it aside, yawning and stretching. “It’s fine, someone should stay awake anyway, just in case Armand gets tired of driving, or he runs into trouble.” The small cart was attached to two enormous beetles, moving at a fairly fast pace, and Armand handled them with a bit of skill, though it was nothing compared to Blakeney.
Lord Antony Dewhurst’s grey head perked up from where he’d been lying, apparently not even asleep. He was settled in next to the Comte de Gorbeau, who was huddled near Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. The rest of the space was inhabited by a few fire arms and sacks of flours. The four British mice who were in London so prized as masters of the fashion world, were dressed in tasteless French rags, red, white, and blue ribbons tied around a wrist occasionally, or a small tri colored card stuck into an ugly black cap.
“I can take the watch, Percy,” Tony said with all his customary devotion. All these men, plus fifteen more, were willing to lay down their lives for the beloved leader. “It’s no trouble, I wasn’t even asleep. You’ve worked hard. Here, I’ll even go and trade places with Armand right now, if you like. Poor boy’s undoubtedly tired.”
“It’s fine, Dewhurst,” yawned Blakeney again. “Rest up. I think Armand can handle the reins a little while longer, besides. But I’d better check up on him.”
Deftly, the large, blonde figure crawled across the mouse bodies and sacks of flour until he reached the front of the cart, the burlap roughly tied together to create a screen. Listening to make sure there was no chance of anyone spotting him, Percy stuck his head under the burlap, startling Armand St. Just slightly, which made the beetles slightly nervous. Armand quickly soothed them.
“Hush now, it’s alright,” he said in his native tongue, his flawless French, not the English that Blakeney had been hearing moments ago. “Bonjour, Percy, what is up?” he asked.
“Nothing. I just wanted to know if you were tired or needed a break,” responded Blakeney in perfect French as well. You would almost mistake him for a native of the country, which was precisely what he wanted.
The young man, the carbon copy of his younger sister, shook his head no. “I’m quite alright. We should reach Calais within an hour or two.”
“Oh, good,” sighed Percy, rubbing at the stiff muscle in his shoulder. He looked disgustedly down at his grey sleeve, plucking at it. “I’m anxious to get out of these noxious garments.”
St. Just shook his head again. “No, I have business back in Paris.”
Blakeney clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “I think you’ve been spending too much time in France lately. Antony has suspicions, you know.”
“Tony always has suspicions,” reminded Armand.
“True, but-”
“I’m not a little boy!” he exclaimed frustrated. “I’m not your son! I know how to take care of myself, I’ve been doing it for years.”
“You’re my brother-in-law, Armand. It’s right for me to worry about you. Marguerite would die if she knew anything had happened to you, and despise me if she knew I’d been the one to let you put yourself into danger.”
“We all knew the dangers when we agreed to do this,” St. Just argued. “I can take my share of the risk, just the same as anybody else. France is my motherland, and it would look more suspicious if I were always popping back and forth to England all the time. Besides, Louise-”
“Ah, yes, Louise! Your little sweetheart! I’d quite forgotten,” Percy lightly teased. “In that case, I quite understand.”
Armand looked down at the blonde mouse, slumped against the frame of the cart, exhaustion panted on his face. “I trust you’ll race home to Marguerite, then?”
Depression now joined exhaustion, and Blakeney’s features darkened. “There’s no rush. She doesn’t want to see me, she cannot stand me.”
“If you would just tell her the truth!” St. Just argued for the millionth time. “Then she-”
“I don’t want to hear it,” snapped Percy. “I’ve told you time and time again, I can’t take that chance. If she’s capable of murder, she’s capable of anything. Even betraying her own husband and brother!”
“She would never do that,” snarled Armand, ready to defend his sister to his dying breath.
“Wouldn’t she?” recoiled Blakeney. “You haven’t been in England lately, Armand, you do not know what goes on. I’ve seen her talking with that Chauvelin character quite a bit lately, sneaking out of parties to be alone with him. No, I don’t trust her for an instant. And some sort of character, a tall, brown chap, was following them both at Lord Digby’s ball. I suspect that he’s in with Chauvelin, but there’s not way to be sure.”
“Ask her!” begged St. Just. “Ask her what is going on!”
“Do you think she’d tell the truth? You are naïve, and-”
“And nothing! She’d spit in Chauvelin’s face rather than give him the pleasure of being able to use her like that again. When she found out that she’d caused the death of St. Cyr, she-”
“Hid it from the people she was supposed to trust and confide in and ran straight to Citizen Chauvelin!”
“To beg him to help! To try and save St. Cyr’s life! Percy, you didn’t even know her then! How can you pass judgment like this?”
“Do you think I enjoy hiding this away? Do you think I love racing back and forth, playing the mystery hero? Do you think I like being able to see her, but never touch her? Do you think I love chatting frivolously about utter nonsense and see the cold, hateful glares she sends at me? That I want to have my wife live a completely separate life from me when we were supposed to share the rest of our lives together? I’ve got news for you, Armand, I don’t enjoy it. I hide the truth from her because it is what I think is best. Best for you, best for me, and for the rest of us! Remember, you all agreed to trust in me, and go on what I think is best. I despise living this sham, this half life, but I will do it, because by God, the world has gone mad, and someone has to start helping the innocent people who are getting their necks chopped off because people like Chauvelin denounced them, and because people like your sister, my wife helped them to do it.”
St. Just had fallen silent, knowing it was pointless to argue. He looked away from his brother and law, and softly announced “Calais is only sixty miles away now. We should reach it before dusk.”
“Good,” sighed Blakeney, rubbing at his stiff neck before drawing his head back inside the cart. Grumbling, he settled on top of a sack of flour and slept an uncomfortable, dream filled sleep.
“Where are your fish, Sir Percy?”
Percy, who’d been glancing over the books on his shelf, wheeled. Marguerite was glaring at him, standing in the doorway of the library. The storm had moved into the main land, and there was a flash of lightening outside the window, filling the library with light. Blasted weather they’d had recently.
“Ah, madame, you quite startled me!” he exclaimed, pretending to be sincerely frightened. “Pray, don’t sneak up on a body so. It’s dreadfully annoying.”
“You didn’t answer my question!” she accused, stepping farther into the room, fists at her sides. It was more than just hate she was glaring at him with, but hurt as well. It radiated from her lovely face. “You went to Scotland to go fishing, now where are your fish?”
He sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “Luck did not favor me. But you should have seen the monster that Andrew-”
“Why are you telling me these things?” she begged, taking a few more resolute steps into Blakeney’s library. “Why won’t you tell me the truth? You didn’t go to Scotland, I know it!”
She did? Oh, God, she couldn’t possibly know that he-
“Now,” she demanded, tears springing to her eyes, “I ask only one thing of you: Just tell me her name, Percy, that’s all I want.”
Her….name? She thought that he….? “You think that I….?” he stammered. A mistress? Was that what she thought? Part of him was flooded with relief at Marguerite’s apparent ignorance, but the other was being attacked by despair; she thought that any other woman in the world could possibly rival her? Could possibly be half so satisfying to hold and to see and to kiss? The idea disgusted him. Laughing, Blakeney said “You think that I have a mistress? You must be joking!”
“No more than you are.”
“Ah, my dear, you forget; I happen to love my sense of humor.”
“Stop this game, stop this lie!” she cried, wringing her paws. “Why won’t you tell me the truth?”
He couldn’t control his temper, he let the words slip. “I could ask the same of you.”
She was taken aback, paused for a moment. Finally, she asked “What are you talking about?”
“Ah, so you see, my dear, we both have secrets that we’d rather not tell. Since that is the case, let us keep our secrets.”
She tried to say something in her defense, tried to find words to spit at him, but found nothing.
Finally, Blakeney spoke: “Lord Grenvile’s annual party is tomorrow.”
“I remember.”
“I brought you a present,” he said, motioning to a small box on a table. He was always bringing her presents. “I thought you might like to wear it tomorrow.”
Reluctantly, she walked up to the table, picking it up. Opening it, she smiled sadly; a flawless emerald necklace. He’d already given her three, though each was different and beautiful in their own way. “Merci.”
He glanced at her from the corner of his blue eyes, watching her as she gently ran her delicate fingers across the gold and jewels. “You do look so splendid in emeralds.”
“Thank you.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, selecting a book and heading toward the door, “I have a mountain of work to do. I’ll be in my study if I’m needed.”
“Of course.”
With that, he left the room, and Marguerite collapsed into a chair.
In a remote corner of the room, he’d noticed, was Citizen Chauvelin, impatiently waiting, waiting, waiting. He paced, he stood, he sat, he ate, he drank. But always his tail twitched in an anxious, nervous matter. Gorbeau, gone, vanished out of thin air! Could those idiots in France do nothing without him telling them every step? Well, he would fix that. All he needed was for the telegram to come, just to confirm his suspicions. A spy had tipped him off that young Lord Antony Dewhurst had been spending quite a bit of time with the treacherous Armand St. Just. He’d been watched, followed by the spy. Tonight, Dewhurst was here, and the spy would send the letter if what Chauvelin hoped turned out to be true: Dewhurst simply had to be in league with the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Basil, however, didn’t have the time to spend watching the ambassador. He needed to get in contact with Lady Blakeney, and fortune had given him the perfect opportunity – a waltz was starting.
Weaving through the crowd of her admirers, the cunning detective managed to reach her. “Lady Blakeney, would you honor me with a dance?”
Surprised, she glanced up at him, not recognizing him. Reluctantly, she gave him her paw, and he began to lead her out onto the floor. Gazing at him intently, she finally saw beyond the disguise. Her eyes lit up, she smiled.
“You have news of Armand?” she asked in a whisper.
“No, but I have a suspicion; tonight, I will research it, tomorrow, I will act on it.”
“And what will that entail?”
“I’m leaving for France tomorrow.”
She paled. “I see. And?”
“And, I will not be in touch for a very long time. Do not worry, Lady Blakeney. I will get in contact with you the moment I’m back in London, and will make sure to see you again tonight.”
“Yes, of course.”
Marguerite was not the only one to see through Basil’s clever disguise. Nay, in fact, her husband was watching him quite carefully, growling in his throat.
“The same chap as before?” Lord Hastings asked.
“Most definitely. I’ll bet you anything Chauvelin sent him.”
“Speak of the devil….” Hastings responded, feeling slightly nervous as he pointed out the black creature to his friend.
Chauvelin was laughing. Indeed, collapsed in a chair, he was laughing harder than he’d ever laughed before. No one knew what about, and those nearest him edged away, thinking him quite mad. A note was clutched in his black paw, and he seemed to find some private joke hilariously funny.
The joke? Dewhurst was a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. The punch line? A note was tucked in his sleeve, from his fearless leader; Dewhurst planned to meet with him tonight.
The Pimpernel was here.
…
Sir Percy Blakeney looked nothing like what he did yesterday – that is, resembling something of a drowned rat. A storm had caught their ship on the way out of Calais, soaking all to the bone. Andrew now had a dreadful sneeze, but other than that, there were no casualties.
…
Lady Blakeney’s letter had reached Basil only just in time for him to quickly prepare a costume and make an unnoticed entrance. Only he was no longer dressed as a servant: A fake mustache was glued just below his nose, his hair slicked back. Dressed to look as important as the company around him, he spoke to as few as possible, and snubbed as much as possible. There hadn’t been time to find Dawson a costume; he’d have to work alone.
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