From Bad to Worse

Henshaw had done an admirable job of repairing the damage to Bathurst's suit (one would never guess it had, only a short time ago, been covered with cheese stuffs). Now it was time to collect his sweet little Teresia from the clutches of the lecherous Sir Andrew Ffoulkes - if that bastard compromised her in anyway... He was a fool to have left her with him for so long! As soon as Henshaw had finished and Bathurst was satisfied with the work, the latter raced downstairs towards the ballroom - leaving Henshaw unthanked.

Where would that rake slink off to? Bastard wasn't content with bedding the little du Tournai and Blakeney's spying bitch of a wife, now he wanted the vulnerable little Marquise. Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!

He pause on the threshold of the ballroom, watched the dancers measure out the movement of the minuet for a few minutes before he was satisfied they were not amongst the dancing couples. Bastard! He turned away from the dance hall towards the terrace, examining nooks, and nearly ran over Hastings and MacKensie in his haste. He stood there blinking at them for a moment as though he barely recognized them, then realized his other duty that night. He thrust his hand into his pocket and extracted the note Fanshaw had given him, thrusting it into Hastings hand. "Is he even in any condition for this tonight?"

"Have you laid eyes on my wife at all this evening?" The question was so desperate it instantly laid to rest any doubt of Percy's love for his treacherous wife. Tony thought for a moment before shaking his head. He hadn't given a single thought to Lady Blakeney all evening.

"Tony, I think it's too late to go to France. Some of the servants at this party are revolutionaries. Look at 'em. Who else do you know who has cut his hair? Only Charles James Fox and a handful of pro-revolutionary radical Whigs. I think Lady Shipwash has been compromised and by someone close to her."

"Of course! I hadn't realized before� I suppose even Revolutionaries have fashion trends�" The concept distracted him for a moment as his mind wandered to the plethora of black waistcoats in his closet second only to his collection of tri-colour. His attention was brought back at the mention of Percy's servant trailing his wife. Had he heard Sir Percy correctly? Was it to protect her from the French, or to keep her from them? Surely there was more trust between them than that! Suddenly, with his thoughts wandering again, he heard orders being given to him� Zounds!

"From left to right. In order. Meet me back here in twenty minutes. If you see her, try to convince her to come away with you. Don't mention my name."

"Of course Percy. Twenty minutes." And with that he took of into the mass of bodies that stood before him. Left to right, left to right. Marguerite had to be here somewhere!

As much as he was loathed to admit it Hastings was right. Now that he knew they were there, it was plain to see that that the player in that little incident earlier was no footman, but why...? He played the whole scene back in his mind, how Lady Blakeney conveniently intervene... she was working with them! Had to be! But how would she know about the note Blakeney sent? She didn't, it was still in his pocket where he left it. Then what...? His stomach fell out with the realization of what the duplicitous Lady Blakeney was up to.

Lady Blakeney had too keen an interest in Teresia.

Bathurst grabbed Hastings and MacKensie each by an arm and pulled them outside. "Don't ask me why, but I think they are after the Marquise de Fouteney," Bathurst whispered. "We need to sober Blakeney up and let him know the danger around us." The stables at midnight. Blakeney would be there, but in the meantime he had to find Teresia who was in eminent peril.

MacKensie had been lost in thought, running over all the unfamiliar faces he had come across since he arrived at Shipwash Manor. Of course, now that Hastings had pointed it out -- the cropped hair cuts of several of the servants, the ill-fitting livery, the abundance of odd mishaps with footmen and food-bearing servants...spies, the lot of them! But how had Lady Shipwash not noticed her growing staff? Sure, it was normal to hire outside help -- but the French faces... Realizing that Bathurst had ceased dragging he and Hastings around, MacKensie tried to focus on what the man was saying. Something about the Spaniard...

"Don't ask me why, but I think they are after the Marquise de Fouteney..."

The Scot's dark brows furrowed, his eyes locked on the larger man's countenance. The man continued, "we need to sober Blakeney up and let him know the danger around us."

"Sober him up? Lord, man," MacKensie whispered in return, his face inches from Bathurst, "Blakeney is more aware of his surroundings in his most sotted state than any one of us on our most vigilant behaviour. We need not worry about him! But now, really, forget the Marquise and your libido for all of two minutes and tell us what news you have had." His voice was less than a whisper and his characteristically good humoured eyes were dancing with nerves yet to be settled after the evenings many mishaps.

Making his way through the ballroom, Glynde leaned heavily on his cane. Though not in pain, being very aware that he was surrounded by what seemed at least a dozen of the little queueless buggers, Philip kept the injured act finely in place.

He had seen Bathurst exit to the terrace through the door nearest the gameroom, after MacKensie and Hastings. Glynde was itching to follow, and learn what had transpired. Was the entire league in the same place that was presently crawling with the enemy? What of the Pimpernel? Philip silently prayed he hadn't been compromised. His brow furrowed with worry, but to walk out the doors and join his compatriots right away seemed folly.

Another queueless footman, carrying a tray of sweets caught his eye. He snatched it away, and sent the little spy on his way. Glancing around, Philip spied their hostess. He immediately regretted not paying his surroundings enough attention. He'd embarrassed the poor lady. "Lady Shipwash." He limped to her side, handing her the cushion, she had so graciously lent him. He set down the tray on a nearby table. "A word in your shell-like ear." Glynde graced her with a warm smile. "I do apologize for my behavior, my lady." He took her hand, raising it to his lips as he bowed slightly. "I'm afraid the sweet morsels at your party got the better of me." He looked down at the fingers he had not yet released, feigning shock. "My word! It seems I'm at it again!" He gave the giggling lady a wink, and dropped her hand.

These actions secured him an introduction to the lovely young brunette presently under the lady's wing. What he had thought a rather daringly dressed debutante, turned out to be Lady Wexton, the young widow of one of his fellow officers in his majesty's royal navy. Her husband had found the next life a little over a year ago. Lord Wexton had been a close friend of Philip's.

He remembered Wexton mentioned that his brand new bride had been a little French beauty. Philip bowed over the delicately offered hand, taking in just what the man had described. "I say! Arthur hasn't done you justice at all." He breathed.

Lady Wexton giggled, tapping his arm with her fan. "Sir Phillipe, we meet at last." He raised an eyebrow. She smiled. "Though my husband may not have done me justice, he described you to a tee, monsieur."

"Indeed." Glynde straightened, and took a step back. "Perhaps I had better take my leave, as Lord Wexton has no doubt told you all manner of beastliness he imagined just to keep me from this lovely vision he was lucky enough to secure as a bride."

The lady giggled again, shaking her head. Their hostess, seeing her presence needed elsewhere, tapped Philip with her fan as well. "Is it safe to leave Lady Wexton in your care for the moment, Sir Philip?" He gave her a shocked look. The two women giggled again, and Lady Shipwash excused herself to attend to her hosting duties.

Here was his ticket to the terrace. He offered his arm to the lady, who rested her fingers on his sleeve. "I'm afraid, much as I ache to, I'm unable to ask you to dance tonight." Glynde slightly raised his new cane as explanation, "but if you would join me for a breath of fresh air, perhaps I can improve your opinion of me." He winked at her, eliciting a little blush, and yet another giggle. He walked them through the far doors to the terrace.

Not far away, he spied his friends in conversation. Making sure to keep well out of earshot, Philip selected a bench in a corner for a more intimate setting, making sure the lady was seated with her back to the league-members, so his attentions would seem to stay with her, and she was none the wiser of their presence. Thus, he kept an eye on his friends, making sure they remained undisturbed, for whatever was afoot, it smelled quite rotten.

Hastings could not stifle the grin that formed on his lips at this exchange - Bathurst always seemed to bring out the worst side of people (twas fortunate that he was not French otherwise he might have been amongst those they tried to save). Fortunate for both men that they knew each other so well otherwise the conversation could have taken a more dangerous turn, however MacKensie was versed with Bathurst's short temper and the other man knew well MacKensie's fierce devotion to their chief. They might spar, but they also knew where to draw the line.

To Bathurst's credit (that is if he wasn't exaggerating the situation) there were good grounds on which to believe that there was some danger to the Marquise. If Chauvelin's spies were stalking the woman, there was no telling what they would be after. Fouteney. The name meant little to him, which was not to say that she or her husband didn't have some intriguing political connections, but it was not a name that Hastings had run into. They may be after her to get to her husband. Then again perhaps they wished to black mail her, it was not unheard of...

"If there are spies interested in your ward," ward was not the first word to come to mind, "then there should be at least one of us with or near her for the rest of the evening. Are you certain it was a spy that was interested *in her* in particular? It is easy to see how she might turn any man's head."

Bathurst scowled again, "I'm entirely certain."

Hastings looked down at the note in his hand. There was little time before they were to meet Percy, but would this new wrinkle effect his plans? He passed the note to MacKensie. "Where are Ffoulkes and the Marquise now?" he asked no one in particular.

MacKensie tried to remember the handful of French spies he and Tony had been evading. There had been four, they decided. And all interested in Lady Blakeney, Bathurst , Ffoulkes, Dewhurst and himself. But had they been watching the Marquise? It was hard to tell. Every man had taken note of her this evening -- just as every man had taken note of Lady Blakeney. But the spies in particular *had* been stalking Percy's wife...could it be they were indeed after this woman of Bathurst's and the man was right for once?

Glancing down at the note tucked in the palm of his hand he read two words. "Stables" and " midnight ." He pulled out his pocket watch. It was a quarter till. Something suddenly struck him. The accident with the footman and the cheese plate and Bathurst. And Bathurst had been the carrier of the note from Blakeney...

Hastings was asking about Andrew and the Marquise. "They were heading off the dance floor" and towards a more private location, he thought to say, but then decided it would not do to send the man off in a storm to kill Ffoulkes over a blasted woman. "But that was at least half an hour ago. Bathurst," he said suddenly, still mulling over the cheese incident and the note, "who brushed you of f after the -- the...event...on the dance floor? Has anyone been about your pockets to see this bit?" He dropped his eyes to the note in his hand, careful to keep his voice low.

Bathurst puffed up indignantly. �I am not so much a fool as to allow one of those wretches lay hands on me, sir. Lady Blakeney summoned Sir Percy�s very own footman to my aid...� Bathurst sputtered to a halt. Lady Blakeney had taken his coat, it remained with her as she waited outside the room for Henshaw. There was enough time for her to find and read the brief missive� oh, lord! Bathurst�s stomach sank. Hadn�t she rushed off with great haste when Henshaw arrived?

�Oh, good god!� Bathurst gasped, staggering to a nearby bench. The bitch had played him! �L-Lady Blakeney� she had more than sufficient opportunity to see it!� He grabbed a hold of MacKensie�s forearm. �Sh- she was also very interested in the Marquise de Fonteney� she was questioning me about the Marquise�� Beads of cold sweat began to form on his brow. Lady Blakeney and Teresia were both decidedly missing from the party.

MacKensie's youthful face, generally so full of optimistic gaiety, dropped at the mention of Lady Blakeney's name. He had heard it whispered that the woman was a French spy set to betray the man she had married -- wittingly or unwittingly, he did not know -- but MacKensie had always dismissed the rumours. He respected Percy more than any man on earth, and therefore he felt it only necessary ... duty would dictate that he must indeed respect the beautiful foreign actress as well. No matter the suspicions. But now -- the coincidences. Lady Blakeney had been at the scene of the crime -- she, a woman who intensely hated Bathurst -- had been the first to step forward and assist him.

"Interested in her? How so, man?" MacKensie, in order to keep himself from view of the hall beyond, sat down on the bench beside the nervous fellow. "If Lady Blakeney saw that note -- God, it is--" He extracted his pocketwatch with trembling fingers, "it is quarter til! Percy will be there and whoever that woman might have told...someone needs to get to the stables -- and it cannot be me or Bathurst -- both of us are being watched closely by those damn frogs!" He glanced up at Hastings. "You may still have a clear shot at it."

Hastings stared out at the distance glow of the lantern on the stable door - almost imaging he could see figures moving passed the light. Ridiculous. The light was not nearly so good to discern all that, more likely was the case that that wind was rocking the lamp on it�s hook It felt as though MacKensie and Bathurst were speaking at a great distance� �Lady Blakeney� had more than sufficient opportunity to see it� questioning me about the Marquise� Lady Blakeney saw that note� Percy will be there and whoever that woman might have told...someone needs to get to the stables�� After long he could scarcely tell which voice was which � merely words that fed his fears. The tables had turned. They were being cornered like rats in a barn - first one side blocked off and now another. Even the Percy on home had been compromised. Bathurst 's twisted logic had some sense to it, but could Percy's own wife be the spy?

Right under he own nose and he didn't even see it... well how could he? The man was working inhuman hours to save as many people as he could, no one other man amongst them had put in so much of his time and energy, so other had sacrificed so much if his personal happiness. Well, not necessarily happiness, it was clear to everyone that Percy was growing increasing unhappy in his marriage. "This is what comes of marriage. Not love. Obligation. Ob-li-ga-tion.� If she was the spy then the accusations that she led the Marquis de Saint-Cyr to his death might be truth. A viper with the face of an angel.

"You may still have a clear shot at it," MacKensie interjected, a heavy hand placed on Hastings shoulder serving as an anchor into the here and now. �Or I may be running blindly into Chauvelin�s trap,� he nearly said, but bit the comment back. Bathurst sat there in stunned silence, deliberately looking away. Was he the only choice or was it the case that neither MacKensie or Bathurst wanted to be the one to tell Sir Percy Blakeney that his beloved wife was positioning him for a meeting with the French death machine.

"Fine,� Hastings said flatly. �One of you should stay here and the another watch the other terrace. Fanshaw many have warned others who are even now wandering blindly into that trap. Watch to make sure no one else unwittingly heads that way... We don't want this to be too easy for Chauvelin." With that he plunged forward into the darkness, making long quick strides across the lawn, reaching the hedgeline and hugging the shadows, prepared to duck into the brush if someone approached.

Bathurst avoided Hastings eyes - now there would be no working with him! MacKensie had a point, Hastings was the best choice, but now that meant that Hastings also got to tell the story his way to Blakeney before anyone else. "That damned fool Bathurst has got himself found out!" Then there would be the taunted from now on. Spiteful little bastard! How on earth did they figure him out? Why did he take his eyes off Teresia when there was so much danger around? He was a damned fool!

"Stay here," Bathurst said when Hastings disappeared. "I'll go through the party to the next entrance, perhaps that will increase my chances of stopping anyone before they start." And to see if he spotted Teresia or Sir Percy's bitch wife. "Make note of anyone who wanders out onto the lawn."

Philip watched as his friends disbanded one by one. Only half paying attention to the lady next to him, he made several observations. There had been bad news. Bathurst had sat down a moment in the middle of conversation. Philip couldn't remember ever having witnessed the man take a seat in response to anything said. It must be quite bad, thought the baronet. Upon this, Hastings had left, then Bathurst as well, leaving only MacKensie.

Philip was about to find a plausible excuse to return the lady to her hostess, and seek out one of his fellow league-members, when the usual pleasantries took a different turn. "You're him, aren't you?"

"Whom, my lady?" He raised an eyebrow.

"The man all of France and England is talking about."

"No, madame, I am not Julius Ceasar." Philip assured the lady. "If you do not believe me, I could remove my shirt, and prove it to you." He winked "There are no marks from swords, and I am quite alive."

The lady blushed a might. "Non, monsieur. The..." She looked about, and continued in a whisper "Scarlet Pimpernel."

Philip laughed, a hollow sound. "My word!" His insides turned to ice. "I would hope the Pimpernel to be a better rider than I." He displayed his cane.

"It was you."

"What was me?" he stood, leaning on his cane. "Falling off the horse? Aye. Quite an embarrassing tale. The entire ballroom must be abuzz with it, what?" The late Lord Wexton would turn in his grave, had he known his lady to be a spy. Philip sighed inwardly. Bloody women!

The lady shook her head, her expression quite serious. Her green eyes locked on his. "You saved my life that day, monsieur."

The baronet frowned. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're on about, my lady."

Lady Wexton looked around, then fished something out of the beaded reticule, suspended from her wrist. "You told me I wouldn't be safe in my family's home, in my country. Then you disappeared..." She opened her hand to display a miniature painting of a little girl, perhaps three or four years of age, with brown curls, dimples to spare, and an all too familiar smile. Philip's heart seemed to leap out of his chest and fall to the floor all at once. A hand slipped from the cane, to take the miniature. After a minute, he looked back at Lady Wexton, returning to his seat beside her. She smiled at him, a sad smile.

"Danielle...?"

She nodded.

Left alone, MacKensie retook his seat on the stone bench and placed his aching head into his burning palms. What he should do, he knew, was get up and wander the manor. Undoubtedly the frogs would set to watching him again, and the fewer spies left to observe Blakeney and those that went searching for him in the stables, the better. Lifting his head he watched as Bathurst 's form disappeared. Perhaps he should not have let the man go off alone. He was in no condition to-- MacKensie brushed the thoughts aside. What did he care what the lout did?

With a sigh the young man stood. Bathurst may be an ass, but he realised he sympathised with the big oaf. No man wanted to think that the love of his life was in danger -- true Bathurst often thought every other woman was the love of his life -- but that made it no different at the present hour.

Glynde had taken a seat across the patio, apparently wooing a pretty young thing that had caught his eye.

Watching the man for a moment MacKensie witnessed the fellow go through a series of emotions. His face, placid as it was, could not conceal the concern, and later relief, that touched his eyes. Curious, the slender Englishman took a few steps closer, staying out of sight of the young woman with Philip, but stepping into the light so Glynde could see him. If the man needed help MacKensie wanted to be near by.

"You are him." She was sure.

He looked at the picture in his hand. "Would that I were, madam. Would that I were." He sighed, looked up, seeing MacKensie watching not far off, and pocketed the thing. There was no place for emotion here. He steeled himself. The league may well need him. "I'd jump out, confess, and have my head severed without delay." he chuckled. "...with a generous tip to the executioner." He paused a moment to ponder doing just that anyway. Then he got up again, taking the lady's hand, urging her to her feet as well, deliberately stepping behind her, a hand gently placed in the small of her back. "I must excuse myself, madam." He had to get rid of her. " England has been without its most lovely new addition long enough. We must return you to the festivities, my lady." she looked startled, and as though she were about to protest, but Philip said not another word, nor did he look at her until she was safely in the company of their hostess once more. As they left the terrace, however, with the hand behind her back - balled into a fist, then flat again, then pointing left - Philip signalled MacKensie to wait in the shadows, hoping the man was still watching. He had to learn what game was playing out here, but he could not do it with Danielle on his arm.

He looked straight ahead towards his goal, Lady Shipwash, not too far from the terrace doors inside the ballroom. "My ladies," he stepped back a pace, and bowed as low as his exaggerated injury would allow. "I dare not keep such a vision to myself any longer." He looked into Lady Wexton's confused and disappointed eyes. "I find I must remove myself from this temptation, for I've become quite spoiled already." He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve to silently explain his hurried behavior to Danielle, pressing it to his lips for a moment, apparently collecting himself. "If I stay in such delightful company much longer, I may make a spectacle of myself, weeping at my good fortune." Lady Shipwash laughed at this, and tapped him with her fan, shaking her head. He graced her with a smile, nodded to Danielle, who gave him an understanding look, and made his way back towards the door.

Philip needed a drink. There were too many surprises tonight. What was Danielle Tremaine doing here? He had thought the lady had gone to Austria ...or perished. Why was she here, asking him about the Pimpernel? Spies everywhere...Lady Wexton was Danielle Tremaine?! How on earth...? Damn Wexton for never mentioning anything about his wife besides the woman's appearance!

A persistent pounding assaulted his head. He thought of the picture in his pocket, unasked questions reeling in his mind. He would have to find another opportunity to talk to the mysterious Lady Wexton...This was no time for his personal matters to come calling. The league came first. Limping back outside, aware of some eyes following, Philip swallowed a groan. Why couldn't life be as simple as death?

MacKensie was nowhere to be seen. Glynde did not so much as twitch, limping straight past the hedge as though he meant to meet some lady for a lover's tryst, or take an emotional moment alone, away from public view. He gave an almost indiscernible nod of satisfaction. Under cover of the shadows, and out of sight, without looking back, he stepped lithely to the left. Removing his flask from his hidden coat pocket, he announced his arrival to MacKensie with the faint, reflecting light on the silver. If he saw the earlier signal, the man would be there.

The small hairs on the back of Philip's neck stood on end as a cold breeze blew past. He frowned. Had he heard something? Before the man could speak, MacKensie was silenced by a hand in the air. Holding his finger to his lips, Philip gave his friend a meaningful look, then slowly, silently turned to peek through the tiny part in the hedge.

He rolled his eyes at himself. First he had ignored virtually everything until almost physically running into MacKensie and Hastings, now Philip found himself on the verge of paranoia. Entering the terrace, looking extremely aggitated was none other than Shipwash's cat...

The rustling of the leaves as MacKensie moved aside the branches sent the cat under the nearest bench. Philip stifled a groan. If the damn thing had been one of the little spies, they would have been exposed now. "Cat got your tongue, eh, chap?" The bluest ice in the form of Philips eyes turned on MacKensie. "I know just the lady to teach you the value of that saying," he retorted, putting quite an indecent twist on the man's words.

"...quite safe here..." Philip turned back to watch the doors, and make sure that remained true. Two glowing orbs stared at him from under the bench. "Aye," he agreed. "for now." He glanced at the man as MacKenie let the branches fall back into place, then turned back to watching the doors to the ballroom.

"Hastings ... midnight ...for better...worse..." Philip was only half listening. None of the concern Philip had seen earlier was now evident in his friend's voice. Either all was well in hand, or it was all over.

Lady Wexton came to stand near the doors, fidgeting nervously with her fan. She took a glass off a tray, passing too slowly, too close. He frowned. Did she say something to the man? He couldn't tell if the look she gave the spy was more than mere gratitude for the drink. With one last glance in his general direction, Danielle moved back into the sea of faces. "Whatever transpired, it seems I shall have to learn of it later." He clapped a hand on MacKensie's shoulder. "Some cats bear watching." He said, nodding towards the door.

Thus Sir Philip straightened, took a sip from his flask, letting the amber liquid caress his throat. Returning it to his pocket, he pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, and resumed his injured part, re-entering the ballroom to follow that last queueless footman. Perhaps he could learn of his purpose by playing his own game...

It was surely just after midnight that Hastings found himself stumbling along blindly over grass and undergrowth. A direct path to the stables would have been foolhardy, any spy worth his salt would have seen him blundering along � not that feeling his way around trees and hedges was turning out to be a much better alternative. As it were, the entire scene seemed out of place� he was accustomed to being on-guard during their excursions to France , but on their on soil and at a formal party to boot! He greatest worry should be avoiding ambitious parents hoping to pawn their daughters off onto him. What sort of game was Chauvelin playing at? If it came out that he had spies infiltrating the homes of the aristocracy, there would be no way Pit justify not going to war.

Hastings kept one eye on the soft glow of the stable lamp as he cautious picked his way to the stables. He�d wager a month�s income that Percy was there already and that Chauvelin, or one of his lackeys was also. Hastings stopped in his tracks as the lamp flickered as though something passed before it. A tall thin form strode swiftly away from the stable, Hasting screwed up his eyes hoping to discover the man�s identity, but could see no more than lamp light casting a faint and fading light on the man�s hair and coat until the man was lost in darkness. Even as Hastings stared into the darkness, the lamp flickered ever so slightly once more, but this second fellow was in the shadows to too quick to be seen. Was that one Chauvelin? Little rat! If it was then it was all done and Percy was now vulnerable. Chauvelin would certainly use young Saint-Just as a lurid to pull Percy in.

Hastings began to move out into the open, hoping to intercept the little revolutionary and render him incapable of any more villainy when a third figure came from the stable. It wasn�t the lamp that had warned him of this one, but the squelching of grass under foot and the distinct rustling of skirts� skirts? Hastings stepped quietly back upon the trees to watch for what he could only image was a woman, her path took her close to Hastings hiding place. Suddenly her steps slowed, and for a moment he worried that she had seen him when the murmur of voices caught up with him. The other one had either swept in soundlessly, or had been hiding nearby � he could have run right into the blaggard!

The pair drew closer � a man and a woman from the sound of it and French. "� watch the men I told you to and let me know what they do and who they meet�� Hastings heard the man instruct � they were passing right by him. He saw a man scantily lit, pass within arms reach � he could have easily reached out and touched the little thing. The man beside her was scarcely taller � that one seems to be a part of the very shadows.

Chauvelin.

�� I now know who the Scarlet Pimpernel is," Chauvelin continued. It was too late. Hastings let them pass and move on quite a ways before he attempted to follow, keeping an eye on the woman. Keeping his distance, Hastings followed them to the terrace - where Chauvelin turned to take up sentry. Hastings remained in the shadows and watched them� willing the woman to turn. Gadzookers! Lady Blakeney! Hastings jaw dropped in astonishment. She had turned to murmur something before she returned inside and Hastings knew her face too well to mistake her for anyone but the wife of his chief. The traitor was the one person closest to the Scarlet Pimpernel. Lord, oh Lord!