“Lord Hastings?”

He looked up, smiled, and stood. “Lady Blakeney,” he replied, taking her hand and giving it a delicate kiss. “It is a pleasure, as always.”

“Do you know where my husband is?” she asked him.

His brown brow furrowed in thought. “Hm….I’m not quite sure.”

“I think he was in the library last I knew,” interceded Lord Antony Dewhurst.

Marguerite’s heart beat quickened. The library? But Chauvelin was there, waiting for the Pimpernel! Would he be able to find him if her husband was there? She hoped not.

“Shall I go and find him for you?” Hastings asked.

“If you would be so kind,” she accepted with a gracious smile.

“Absolutely,” he replied, and hurried off to find the renegade mouse.

Marguerite’s thoughts plagued her, and she decided she needed air. She walked in the direction of the front of the house, hoping to be able to get a better breath of air outside, when a voice stopped her.

“I sincerely hope, Lady Blakeney, that you were not leaving so soon?”

She whirled to find Chauvelin. Her heart beat a crazy tattoo. Was the Pimpernel still safe? Was her brother?

“Soon, I believe. Lord Hastings has kindly gone to fetch my husband. I was merely going outside for some air.”

He crossed the small space between them, offering her his arm, which she accepted graciously.

“Might I join you?”

“Please don’t feel obligated. I would hate to keep you from more important business.”

“Believe me,” he assured. “I have no business here that is more important than you. It would be my pleasure.”

Marguerite’s thoughts raced. She needed a way out of this, a way to be as far away from him as possible. Marguerite had seen Chauvelin at his kindest, his most tender, his most adoring. Now she saw him in his meanest, his cruelest, his most terrifying. Whatever love she had left for him had turned to fear, for fear and love can interchange.

“I am feeling much better now, though thank you. I don’t need the air now.” She knew he would not simply tell her if he’d found the Pimpernel if she just asked; she needed to make it worth his while. So, gazing up at him adoringly, she added “It seems you’re quite the miracle worker, my dear ambassador. I never feel so sickly around you.” Lies.

“You flatter me, my dear,” he responded, now turning with her, her arm still linked with his.

Finally, she asked “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I got everything I wanted to know.”

Marguerite’s heart felt like it might soon burst. “And my brother?”

“You shall have your brother when I have the Pimpernel.”

“Chauvelin, please, you-”

His gaze pierced her, he stared heavily down at her. “Don’t you trust me?”

Slowly, snared in the trap of his pale blue eyes, she responded “Of course. I trust you with my brother’s life, and thusly, with my own.”

“Your life is a very precious thing. I am honored to protect it, which I will do with my own.” Finally, for a moment, the Pimpernel was forgotten, and he said what he’d tried telling her for a month. He stopped her, and looked into her eyes, those lovely blue eyes. “I care for you quite a lot, Marguerite.”

She paused; he’d said that in Paris. But Paris was gone. His grip on her arm tightened, he waited for a reply. “Yes, I know,” she finally responded.

“And?”

“You know that I am a married woman, Chauvelin. No matter what you or I feel, I must still remain faithful to my husband.”

Privately, he thought “Not necessarily. Not for long,” but said nothing, just continued to walk with her. Finally, he said “Might I ask one more dance of her ladyship?” He asked this as they entered the ballroom; the rest of the conversation was heard by no one.

“I do apologize, m’dear Chauvelin,” came the lazy drawl of Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, “but the wife and I were just on our way out, weren’t we, m’dear?” Blakeney asked his wife.

“Oh, yes, of course,” she agreed, and Chauvelin, glaring daggers at the idiot, released Lady Blakeney’s arm.

“Of course,” he allowed graciously. Marguerite quickly crossed to her husband, wanting very much to hold his arm and have an air of “See? You can’t hurt me, Percy’s here!” But she could not afford that. Instead, her arm was looped with her husband’s only because he had extended it to her. He was inadvertently, passively protecting her, not actively, jealously, as she wanted.

“Well, m’dear, let’s be off. Good night, Chauvelin!” Blakeney said jovially, leading his lovely wife out the door, Chauvelin’s eyes following her, a smirk on his face.

“Sir Percy,” she asked him quickly as soon as they were out of the carriage. “Might I have a word with you?”

“I am at your service, as always, madame,” he responded, bowing, “though I must ask if it is not so urgent that it cannot wait till morning?”

“I am afraid it is a matter of a serious kind.”

“Well, in that case, do lead on, m’dear. Where would you like to talk?”

“Anywhere!” her mind cried. It did not matter, so long as they would speak. “Might we walk by the river? It is so lovely in moonlight.”

“Whatever you want,” he agreed, and they walked across the grounds and to the river bank.

Slowly, Marguerite began:

“I am afraid for Armand,” she admitted.

Percy laughed. “Afraid for Armand? Whatever for, m’dear?”

“Please, Percy, do not laugh. It is of the most serious nature!”

“Really? Do tell!”

Why did she think the frivolous man would do anything? Why did she think he could help? The answer was a simple one, though one she did not admit to herself: she loved him. “Percy, Armand has done a terrible, foolish thing. It could get him into a lot of trouble with the Committee of Public Safety.” Suddenly, without being able to stop herself, she began to cry a little. “Oh, God, Percy, they’ve had him arrested! They’ll kill him for sure unless someone does something!”

Blakeney was shocked. It seemed as though the wind had been knocked out of him. But…but they couldn’t possibly know, could they? Armand, foolish boy, why did you insist on traveling back to Paris? Undoubtedly, that’s where they had caught him.

“Chauvelin has put a price on his head,” Marguerite continued, just barely managing to keep her voice under control. “And….And I have paid it! An innocent man will die unless someone can stop Chauvelin!” She was now sobbing freely, shocking her husband even more. He could not stand to see a woman cry, least of all his wife. It took all his self control not to reach out to her.

Instead, he coldly drew himself up and replied “But what’s one more life to you, my dear, after the Marquis de St. Cyr and his entire family?”

Marguerite recoiled from her husband, from his words. “Why do you feel the need to bring that up?” she cried, distraught. “I never would have acted as I had were I to know he would be murdered!”

“Can you honestly expect me to believe that?” he shouted, all of his passion shinning through in that moment. In that space of time, Sir Percy had inadvertently threw off his mask of a fop and his wife recognized him as the man she fell in love with in Paris. He could not check his fiery anger, love, hurt, betrayal, lust from her at that moment. It came in too strong a wave to be stopped. “After you lied to me, after you callously stepped on my heart? My God, Marguerite, I trusted you, and you betrayed my trust!”

“You betrayed me as well! You would not listen to me, you were too full of anger, too full of hate. You let them whisper sharp words in your ear, and instead of asking me if they were true or not, you simply believed them. You attacked me, demanded to know things which I would have told you freely because I loved you!”

“Would you have told me the truth that night?” he demanded.

“Would you have believed me if I did?” she retorted.

The two stood as adversaries by that river bank, but their hearts were beating as one being. They loved each other too strongly, too passionately to every fully stop loving the other.

“I cannot change what I did, Percy. God knows I would have if I could. But now I have a responsibility to the brother that raised me. I’m asking you as your wife; can you please, please try and find someway to save him?”

She was sobbing once again, and the brick walls of their defenses were beginning to waver. Sir Percy would have given anything to destroy the wall and take his wife in his arms, to kiss away her tears, to tell her the truth, and to promise her that he would save her brother. Lady Blakeney would have paid any price to know that the Pimpernel would not be killed, that her brother would be saved, that her husband loved her. But brick walls are hard to take down. One night created a large gapping whole in them, but it did not take them down.

“I will do what I can,” he promised her. He took her paw, and kissed it, holding it for longer than was necessary, both thrilled with the touch of the other. “Now I think it is time you went to sleep, Margot, my dear. It is late, you are tired.”

She took his other hand in hers, desperate to repay him. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

“Not tonight.” It killed him to say no. It killed her to be refused. “I want to get some sleep before I start to work.”

“Of course. Isn’t there anyway to show you my gratitude?”

“Yes,” his mind said, “tell me you love me.” But he did not say that, only wished it. “I’ve done nothing, as of yet, that has earned any gratitude. Wait and see if I can even do a thing for your brother. Then I will tell you.”

“Of course,” she responded, releasing his hand as he released hers. “Good night, Sir Percy.” With that, she turned and fled back to the house, her heart aching.

Had she turned back but briefly, she would have seen a sight of such love and adoration as to astonish her beyond belief; Her husband was bent on the ground, kissing the spot where her little feet had just stood, sighing and sorrowing over his overwhelming, consuming love of her.

She awoke the next morning to two things: The first was cruel sunlight streaming through the window, shinning on her tired blue eyes. The second was the soft, almost inaudible sound of footsteps. She paused briefly, still waking up, puzzling over the time and the sound of the steps, which had now faded into obscurity. She then remembered Percy’s promise to do what he could, and she threw the warm covers off of her, dressed only in her night wrap, and ran to the door. She flung it open to find no one, but, looking down, caught site of a small letter. Her auburn paw quickly snatched it from the ground, and broke the wax seal, reading it:

“My Dearest Marguerite,” it began in her husband’s fine scrawl.

“A matter of urgent business has called me away from you – i.e. your brother. I regret that I could not kiss you goodbye. Please do not be worried. I swear that no harm will come to your brother so long as I live. Ever yours,

“Percy.”

Marguerite clutched the letter for a moment. He would only just now be leaving! She raced to the window, hearing the noise of the carriage as it was readied. Too late; it was already pulling away. She slumped into her bed, sorrowing; she had wanted to say goodbye as well.

She was tempted to crawl back into bed and simply go to sleep, but she had letters to write, and was growing hungry. She dressed, went down stairs, ate, attended to her mail, and then found that she had an absolutely stress free afternoon to look foreword to. What a change!

And so, she walked into the library to select a book. She had just the one in mind, for it was very calming. She searched all over the shelf for it, but could not find it. She then remembered: Two nights ago, when she’d demanded to know who her husband’s mistress was, he’d taken the book off the shelf and secluded himself in his study with it. And so, Marguerite climbed the stairs towards her husband’s study, where only he and Jessup ever went.

She could not recall that it was forbidden, so much that she was never tempted to go in, and that the door was always closed. Well, even if it was, she had a perfectly legitimate excuse; she wanted her book. So, delicately, she pushed the door open. The well oiled hinges did not make so much as a sound. Carefully, she walked silently into the room, gazing around. There was a large fireplace, over which hung a massive picture of Percy’s father. There was his desk, surprisingly cluttered, a chair behind that. A window looked out to the front of the house, his coat of arms hung on the wall, and the rest of the room was generally sparse. She began shifting through the piles on her husband’s desk in order to find a book when something caught her eye.

There were detailed maps of France, Paris, the English channel. Costal towns that were small, would be easy to move through, were carefully marked. There was a list of names of aristocrats; some she recognized, other’s she didn’t. On the list, she noted, the names of her friend Suzanne and her family were crossed out. Why would that be? Fear suddenly clutched at her chest, and she turned back to the portrait of his father, forgetting the book; the late Blakeney was sitting, paw crossed over paw, looking very stern and handsome. And on one of his paws, he wore a ring, which she knew would have gone to Percy at his death. And on the ring, there was a symbol, for it was a signet ring. And the symbol was that of a small, star shaped flower, that Marguerite recognized.

In horror, she recoiled from the picture, her hands covering her mouth. No! Good God, it wasn’t true! It wasn’t true! She wheeled and stared intently at the coat of arms on the wall: Two crossed swords, and in front of them, a star shaped flower.

Her husband, Sir Percy Blakeney, the greatest idiot in all of England, was the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Tears springing to her eyes, Marguerite fled from the room to her own, quickly rummaging in her drawers and in her chests to find the things she needed. She had delivered the man she loved most into the very paws of Chauvelin without ever knowing it! She had to warn him, she had to save him! But where to look? He would be off to rescue Armand. Only, where was he? Chauvelin had returned to Paris now that he knew who the Pimpernel was. Surely Armand was there! She need only disguise herself, then she could find out everything she needed to know; if she could find her brother, she would know where she might find her husband. She could only pray that the accredited agent was not a step ahead of her.

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