Uneasy Allies

Players:

Andrew - Rhonda
Teresia - Sarah
Moreau - Sarah
Hastings - Cyrrise
Glynde - Ruth

Teresia wore a long, dark cloak with the hood pulled well forward. Moreau trudged along beside her, armed to the teeth as usual. She was glad of his presence. When Plancher had first told her where she could find the rest of the league, she had almost lost heart. That part of the city was not one a woman entered alone... especially not a woman who looked like Teresia Cabarrus. However, she had begged Moreau to accompany her and, reluctantly, he had agreed. As far as he was concerned, Teresia wanted to infiltrate the league and turn them in, thereby up-staging Chauvelin. It suited Cabarrus that he should believe that... she still believed it herself... well, almost!

As for Moreau, he had said nothing to the Spaniard about his meeting with De Batz, or the Baron's desire to make contact with this band of English spies. Having seen their leader in La Force, Moreau couldn't help feeling that De Batz had over-rated the man's talents. "I can't see why you persist in this absurd contest with Chauvelin, or what you hope to gain by it?", he said as they walked along, partly out of curiosity and partly to make conversation.

"That man uses people like me and I'm sick of it." she replied vehemently. Teresia had rehearsed this argument a thousand times in the last few days... it might save her life if things were to go wrong. "I do all the work and he takes all the credit... well not this time! This time I will have my share of the glory and if I can snatch it from under his very nose, then all the better! Sssshhh now, we're here." The noise, the tabacco smoke and the smell of wine and stale garlic hit them as they entered. Some of the patrons looked up and noticed the well-dressed, mysterious lady who's face was still shrouded by the hood of her cloak... she'd be worth closer inspection in the alley... but then they saw the sword and the look on the unhidden face of the man behind her and decided on a closer inspection of their fingernails instead. "Where are they?" muttered La Cabarrus to herself, as she scanned the smokey room.

A man in a tricolour sash darkened the door and Glynde sunk lower on the bench, but Hastings sat up and squinted into the light, an abrupt grin splitting his face briefly before he composed his features into a semblance of confused wariness. Sir Andrew looked again, marking the man's carriage, which was a damned sight too cocky even for one of Robespierre's henchmen. The new arrival perused the faces in the dim room, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then, thrusting back his shoulders, he strode right up to their table. It was the way he walked that betrayed his identity to Sir Andrew - it was Edward's kid brother, John Hastings, limping slightly as he had since the day he'd been thrown from a horse into the river. He'd banged up against a rock,broken his leg, and damn near drowned.

"Thank the devil," Andrew said as John stood before him, "Froggie got my letter. Am I right to assume that everyone is here?"

John smiled, somewhat shyly. "Everyone. Pru and Blackie are headquartered at Plancher's. Fanshawe and Galveston are watching the Louvre; they're still waiting for word from Madeleine."

"Madeleine? She should have heard from Tony by now," Ffoulkes said through clenched teeth. "Damnation, I hope that doesn't mean that Armand has been snatched again."

John shrugged, clearly at a loss how to respond. "There's been no word given to anyone. Plancher said he assumed Dewhurst had got away because there's been nothing new to report at La Force. Uh, Kulmstead has been watching La Force for the last two days, so he would be able to send word if anything had happened, or if Dewhurst or Saint-Just showed up, and Mackenzie's relieving him, keeping watch at night."

"Good, good," Ffoulkes said and Hastings nodded. It seemed to be all he could do to keep from leaping up and clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Damn Dewhurst to hell!" Ffoulkes scowled. "We don't have time to send a search party after him . . . and where the hell would they look? Damned fool, we'd have had a whole lot less trouble if we'd sent Armand home with a nanny."

Hastings patted Sir Andrew's arm, warning him to keep his voice down. "And the others?" he asked.

"The rest are shacked up," John said, "waiting for instructions. Saint Denys and Devinne are in a room over the tavern at the Saint-Antoine gates � you know, L'homme Vert - and Stowmarries is . . ." John bit his lip uncertainly. "Damn, what was the name of that blessed street? The one Chauvelin lives on."

"Chauvelin?" Andrew said softly and Hastings sat up straighter. Ffoulkes was aware that none of the conversations around them had resumed, and deliberately pitched his voice lower. "Stowmarries is following Chauvelin?"

John nodded. "That was a change in the plans because of Sir Percy's orders to Madame Cabarrus."

The lad coloured visibly as he spoke her name and Andrew bit his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Teresia. Damnation, but the woman seduced with a look, and John was too young to have built even the flimsiest of defences against such a woman.

"Don't worry about the name of the street, John," Andrew said quickly. "Why is Stowmarries following Chauvelin?"

"Kulmstead saw Chauvelin put Lady Blakeney into a carriage the first day he was at La Force, and he got Vigor to follow it. Vigor sent word back that Chauvelin is holding Lady Blakeney in an apartment, then the next day, when Stowmarries relieved him, we heard that the apartment belongs to Chauvelin . . . and you'll never guess! He had a kid. A daughter."

Glynde gave a hoot of disbelief; Hastings grabbed Glynde's sleeve and gave it a warning yank.

"Sounds like everyone made it, all right," Andrew said, "except Wallescourt."

"Sir Jeremiah is with me, guarding the door," John said, motioning with his chin.

Ffoulkes glanced toward the door, but not even a shadow was visible in the light beyond the step. He leaned toward Hastings and said, "It sounds like everything's falling into place - that's Plancher for you. Give him a list and he makes a doily out of it, but this time at least, it sounds like he's covered every eventuality. The only difficulty will be with whatever Dewhurst's screwed up . . ."

Hastings voice was muffled as he replied, speaking directly to his brother. John nodded. "That's right, Saint Denys and Devinne are just waiting for the word to move and they're within 30 minutes of La Force. Pru and Blackie are dressed up as Revolutionary guards and mounted so they can move quickly."

"And Plancher, as the nerve-centre," Andrew added, "is in his element, gossiping to everyone and serving champagne . . ."

" . . . and Froggie's camped out in his back room in case old Plancher runs into any difficulty," finished John.

"Brave man, Froggie," Andrew mused. "Not many men would be willing to lie that close to Plancher's bedroom . . ." Ffoulkes nudged Glynde with his elbow and muttered, " . . . in case the faggot sleepwalks."

Philip closed his eyes on the images Ffoulkes' last comment sent to his brain, and suppressed a shudder. When he looked up, a more pleasant vision presented itself at the door. The baronet nudged his companions to attention, and nodded towards the entrance. "I'd prefer to find that sleepwalking..." he said under his breath as an appreciative smile spread slowly across his features.

Young John dropped into a seat on the opposite side of Glynde, his eyes locked for a moment with the older Hastings seeking approval and received a smile of genuine admiration. A sharp elbow to his ribcage drew Hastings attention to the shapely curves of Madame Cabarrus as she entered, only slightly later than expected - he couldn't see her face, but Hastings was good at recognizing other attributes and how many women in France could boast breasts like those?

"I'd prefer to find that sleepwalking..." Glynde murmured.

"I imagine that is our guest... and it looks like she's brought a friend," Hastings remarked, eyeing the bloke at her elbow warily. The rumors he'd uncovered about Madame Cabarrus, or Foutney or whatever she was choosing to be called these days, stayed that her apartment was often frequented by notable revolutionaries - Chauvelin among them. The story she had originally gave them back at the Fisherman's Rest appeared highly dubious in light of recent facts. This stranger didn't inspire trust.

She spotted the group in the corner and was about to make her way over when she spotted the tricoleur sash around the waist of one of them. She didn't recognise him and it made her uncertain. Was he Chauvelin's man? Teresia hesitated and turned to say something to Moreau, who glanced at the man then shook his head. That seemed to be sufficient for the Spaniard. She began to pick her way between the tressles and benches. Moreau readjusted his sword and followed.

The temperature around the table had shot up fully five degrees as Teresia entered the room. And what else shot up, Andrew thought facetiously, sucking in a disquieted breath - Milady Cabarrus could raise even the dead. Each man in the group sat up straighter . . . Ffoulkes squirmed in his chair, licking his lips and trying not to grin like a baboon eyeing a fat slug. Hastings's left hand had dropped to his knee where the fingers tapped expectantly against a horn button, and Glynde . . . so little moved the man that it was almost comical to see him thrust his shoulders back as if he'd only just come fully awake.

Every eye in the place had already been focused on their table, thanks to young Hastings's appearance in the tricolour sash; this addition stirred a fresh buzz of conversation. "I'll wager every man in the place is measuring his chances with La Cabarrus against the weight of his purse," Andrew muttered into Hastings's ear. Lord Edward's eyes flicked warningly over Sir Andrew before returning to feast possessively on Teresia. A fat housewife in a spanking white cap had sucked in her cheeks as if she intended to spit on Teresia's skirts, her lips forming the word slut. Teresia passed as if she were Queen Charlotte in her ermines and Andrew couldn't help but admire the marquise's courage.

He stood up, prepared to offer her his seat . . . and every other man at the table got up and offered his chair at the same time.

Madre de dios, but men were so predictable! That was the thought lurking in Teresia's mind as she graciously accepted the proffered chair and smiled at all the other simultaneously vacanted seats. Moreau found a couple of rickety stools for himself and Sir Andrew. Without introducing himself he sat down and eyed the group at the table with a look of curious amusement. "Is it safe to talk openly in here?" asked Teresia of Ffoulkes.

Hastings felt the heat raise to his cheeks as the spanaird took the seat beside him, her watch dog perched opposite. Despite the arousal she inspired in his loins, Hastings trusted her as much as he trusted Chauvelin - or her silent friend. More than anyone else Madame Cabarrus was responsible for Bathurst's imprisonment, he wouldn't have been in Paris if he hadn't thought to play the hero and rescue the alledged "damsell in distress". He doubted if she would bat an eye if he lost his head on the morrow.

As the men settled down into their seats, Hastings eyes raked over the mystery guest. A thin fellow, clearly a swordsman from his bearing, but not a brawler. Close quarters or pistol was the safest way to take him out if necessary. Pity she had not taken his seat, that would have placed the pair between Ffoulkes and Glynde, either of which would have had a stilletto at the ready for the first sign of trouble. Glynde, he knew would be keeping his eye on that sword.

"Is it safe to talk openly in here?" Hastings could help but notice that that viper had chosen her next target.

"As safe as anywhere else in this city," Hastings replied.

Philip's body seemed to move of its own volition, sitting straighter, and bounding to the feet with all the other men at the table at the approach of this quite delectable lady. She spoke. To Philip's delight, the sultry voice matched her more than comely appearance. He guessed this one could seduce a man with an accidental sneeze in his direction. Hooded eyes drank in her beauty before once again returning to the mug of ale on the table. A keen intelligence shone in her eyes, complimenting the self-assured posture. The even rise and fall of her chest, a bosom that could no doubt hypnotize any man within a 10km radius, showed her to be quite at eaze. This lady showed no fear. The accent of her words marked her as a foreigner, and Hasting's announcement of her being whom the league was waiting for gave her the name of Teresia Cabarrus, the Marquise Bathurst had been blubbering about at Shipwash's. Philip gave a silent nod of greeting. He recognized Trouble when it waved its impossibly long lashes at him.

And it seemed it had brought a bodyguard. Disappointment dampened all interest when that sash with a sword followed her. Philip relaxed back into his earlier pose of ennui. A perusal of the man and his weapon led the baronet to believe that this one might very well be a formidable opponent. Arms crossed, he leaned back in his chair, looking quite relaxed. This brought his fingers to rest on the butt of the pistol hidden well under the bulky coat. Lounging thus gave him enough room to shoot the man between the eyes before he would have time to draw that sword of his in this cramped environment. Though he would have rather taken a much closer look at their female companion, Philip resigned himself to watching this stranger out of the corner of his eye. His interest certainly piqued at what business this Spanish beauty and her revolutionary sword could possibly have with this rag-tag assemblage of English in a French tavern of questionable reputation. Seeing how just about every other member of the league already knew the lady, the baronet felt a bit left out of the loop, not having been introduced to her before, and wondered in silence just how she was involved here.

As safe as anywhere... not very comforting. "Very well, I have a message from your chief. He and two others are being held by Citizen Chauvelin."

Moreau watched for a reaction. He had already noted the effect Teresia was having on the group... pulling at the opposing emotions of lust and distrust without even trying. He had also noted that his own presence seemed to evoke only distrust, but that was hardly surprising as he lacked Teresia's obvious advantages. One of the men seemed openly hostile and Moreau was sure he'd glimpsed a pistol hidden under the man's coat. He caught the man's eye and flashed one of Scaramouche's most expressive smiles in his direction. It was knowing, yet winning... friendly, yet goading... disarming, yet supremely, arrogantly confident. I know exactly what you're thinking, inferred the smile, but if you believe it'll work you're either very stupid, or you don't know who I am... which is it, mon ami?

The stranger flashed a smile that did not reach his eyes. They issued a challenge. He may as well have stared into the eyes of a wild beast, waving a red flag. The man seemed to dare Philip to forget everything, to pick a fight right then and there... But apparently the league had business with the sash. The Marquise said she had orders from the Pimpernel. A woman was now issuing orders. If everything else hadn't already gone to hell, Philip would have been surprised.

Thus, stranger's antagonistic expression was answered instead with the calm removal of a flask out of the inner pocket of the baronet's coat. If the man made a move against them, he'd have one bugger of a fight on his hands, but until then, it seemed, Philip would have to play nice... Glynde raised the container a might in the man's direction, toasting his having managed to prick at the baronet's temper. He sipped at the amber liquid, then forced his body to relax, as he returned the flask to its familiar spot. There was a time and a place for everything, but this was neither for temper.

Hastings took a long draw on his pint and tried hard not to grimace at the vinegary substance that was being passed off for wine. Setting his glass down, he continued, "We are already aware of the three prisoners, we'd only have two if not for your antics back in London," Hastings bit his tongue - this was not the time or place for recriminations. "If you intend to be helpful tell us where they are being held and what condition they were in when last you saw them."

"There would only be two, if one hadn't been so foolish as to break into Chauvelin's office." she countered calmly. �Sir Percy and Lord Bathurst are being kept in opposite ends of La Force. Sir Percy is unharmed, but they keep him under constant guard... two men at all times... and don't let him rest an instant. Lord Bathurst is less well guarded, but hurt. Citizen Chauvelin doesn't suffer stubborn fools gladly." Moreau watched their reactions with detached interest.

Hastings swore under his breath. Blood stupid Bathurst! Why hadn�t he just laid low? After all orders were never issued. Then again, Hastings could share in the blame in that he shouldn�t have let Bathurst go into that prison alone. His presence in France should have told Hastings that plans were going awry. Damnation!

At least Blakeney wasn�t injury, even so, deprivation could be devastating in it�s own right. Both of them would be weak, but could they leave on their own two feet, or would they need to be carried? �How badly injured is Lord Bathurst? Can he walk on his own?�

�No,� came the replied. Great.

Rubbing his temples, Hastings asked the question that had been burning in his brain since Plancher first arranged the meeting between them and the lady. �Why are you involved in this, Madame marquise? Why are you so willing to pass information that might cost you your life?�

Ffoulkes settled onto the stool next to Moreau and watched as Teresia settled the overflow of skirts that spilled over both Hastings�s and Glynde�s knees. He was truly disconcerted that she had news of Percy when he knew the chief was inside La Force. How the hell did Madame Cabarrus walk through prison walls?

�We are already aware of the three prisoners . . .� Andrew shut out Hastings�s explanation, concentrating instead on the shift the marquise�s news made in their earlier instructions. If Percy had sent mention of Lady Blakeney�s imprisonment as well as Bathurst and himself, then he expected a 3-way miracle even though he surely knew that the double-miracle was already struggle enough.

Andrew continued to play John Hastings�s words over and over in his mind: Chauvelin had a daughter. How unusual. Was that why Chauvelin had taken Marguerite, because he needed a mother for his child? Ffoulkes tried to imagine Lady Blakeney playing mother to a young girl, but the picture refused to gel in his mind. �How cozy,� he muttered. Someone should show Chauvelin what it feels like . . .�

*What it feels like.* Andrew slumped forward with both elbows on the table, absently running his finger along the rim of the tankard, positively light-headed with possibilities. They could kidnap Chauvelin�s daughter and teach the miserable snake a lesson! Could they? What would it take?

�We should snatch Chauvelin�s little girl at the same time as we rescue Lady Blakeney,� he said, scarcely aware that he spoke aloud. �Give the conniving snake something new to think about.�

Teresia had opened her mouth to reply to Hastings, but Sir Andrew's thoughts battered their way into the conversation first. Neither she nor Moreau knew anything about Chauvelin's 'little girl' and the surprise must have registered on both their faces.

�We got a laugh out of it too,� the younger Hastings piped in. �Pretty little thing, can�t see how she�s his.�

�Maybe she�s not,� the older brother replied. Despite bringing the idea up to Andrew, Hastings was not exactly going forward to kidnapping a child and holding her hostage. And what if Chauvelin wasn�t nearly so fond of the child as everyone claimed � what would they do with her? �The child can�t be more than 8 or 9. I have to admit that Chauvelin should be taken down a peg or two� but what will we do with her?�

A rabid look of fire flickered in those usually frosty blue eyes belonging to the baronet at the mention of a child in the care of Chauvelin. The memory of the vision of Jacqueline's young life so suddenly cut short by the drop of a blade danced in his mind. "I wonder what a study his face would make if he heard his little daughter's screams on the way to the chopping block..." The thought escaped him aloud ere he could check his tongue.

Philip straightened, clearing his throat. The fire iced over with the blink of an eye. "Where would we take a child?" He queried. He was more than a bit surprised, not at the existance of the child - every man had an achillies heel - but at the readiness of his friends to share this information. "Who would guard her, keep her safe?" He sighed. "It seems with a three-way rescue, we need every man --" his eye met the Marquise's "-- beg pardon, my lady. Everyone we can manage to be in action. Not sitting idle, playing nursemaid."

Glynde's gaze once again locked briefly with that of the stranger who'd arrived with the lady. He considered asking to have the man's presence in this rather informative meeting explained. Judging how freely all information was shared, however, Philip finally decided that Madame Cabarrus's companion must be known to the league, and trusted. The baronet let it go, and instead indulged in a good crack of the knuckles that were still a might bruised from an earlier encounter with a four-poster bed.

�Well nothing, of course,� Sir Andrew replied. �What *could* we do with her? A group of grubby men grabbing a kid � we�d be condemned by everyone from Satan to St. Peter.� He swallowed with difficulty. The wine tasted vile, lord, it even smelled sour.

�It was just a thought, nothing more. What we need to do is organise a search party for Tony and Armand � find out why Madeleine hasn�t had word that they made it safely to Calais.� The dim interior of the tavern was lit by a strip of daylight, a golden glow of the setting sun, as another visitor entered. Ffoulkes looked up and saw a lean fair man whom he recognized as Tony Holte, hovering in the doorway. He came shakily to his feet, bashing his ankle on one of the legs of the squat stool at the same time as John leapt up and brushed by Andrew.

�Bon soir, Evian,� John said, clapping Holte on the back and dragging him forward. Holte was considerably older than John, but no taller. He wore a quizzical expression on his face.

"Froggie, where did you come from?" Andrew asked, trying to sound merely curious, but too aware that Holte�s presence could only herald some kind of disaster.

�Lord Kulmstead showed up about an hour ago at Plancher�s,� Holte said quickly, then stopped as if there were too many things to say and he was struggling with order in which to put them. It annoyed Ffoulkes to see Holte so changed; a josher, a fun-loving trickster, this apparition only resembled their friend in appearance. He stood before them dazed and graying about the edges. Andrew looked across the table at Lord Hastings, taking in his white and shaken appearance, and Andrew�s knees felt weak. His ankle ached. It felt like, whatever Holte had to say spelled a final kind of doom and it was too late. Too late to do anything.

"Over here," Andrew directed, offering his newly acquired stool. Holte fell onto it and breathed out a loud sigh.

�Kulmstead was watching La Force as usual, but he cleared the street shortly before the change of the watch because there is some kind of escape attempt going on. Not of our making . . . not our people. A gang of thugs led by a sash-wearing braggart, set up a table at the door, dismissed the guards and for the last hour have been dragging the prisoners out one by one. It looks like they�re enacting a short version of a trial. �Name? What were you arrested for? We condemn you for being an aristo� � and then the thugs hack the prisoner to death. Four dead, Kulmstead said, the bodies just left to lie in the street.�

�But why?� Andrew demanded in his usual peremptory tone; Holte shrugged. Lord Timothy shoved his own tankard in front of Holte and nodded curtly. Holte picked it up in shaking hands. He held the mouthful of sour wine, rolling it from one cheek to the other, then spat it on the floor. He tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and dried his lips with care, then shoved the drink back toward Hastings.

�That�s a deadly drink, my friend,� he said laconically. �Worse than the horse piss I had last night.�

Six revolutionary guards rushed into the tavern, falling over each other in their hurry. One shouted, �There�s a riot at the Plessis.�

The next one added, �We need anyone who is armed, a musket, pike, anything.�

�Come with us at once! In the name of the revolution!� shouted a third. Half the men in the tavern stood and made their way to the door. Once they�d cleared out, leaving only the Englishmen at the back table, one guard remained, who stalked towards them and Andrew recognised Michael Barstow. �Sacre, c�est notre ami . . .� Andrew said loudly, to satisfy the barkeep�s curiosity, then motioned Barstow forward. �Pru, damn it, what�s going on?�

�I can�t say. Kulmstead said . . .�

�We know that,� Andrew interrupted, gesturing toward Holte.

�Devinne went to relieve Kulmstead, but when he told Plancher what he�d seen, Plancher sent Froggie to call in Everingham and Vigor. Everingham went to La Force to see what was what, and found Devinne puking in terror � there�s a full-scale massacre taking place there. So Everingham sent Devinne back to Plancher�s with word that he would stay holed up in the warehouse across from La Force and keep watch. Vigor relieved Stowmarries at Chauvelin�s residence . . . and Stowmarries says it�s been quiet all day. Plancher said he thought we should get everyone in uniform and be ready to storm La Force. He�s heard word � and this is very quietly spoken, Plancher said � that this is no counter-revolution; it�s an escalation of the revolution. They�re bound to relieve France of any aristocrats they might come across and that�s bad news for Sir Percy.�

�And Bathurst,� Andrew added.

�Then we have to move at once,� Hastings�s voice was choked by emotions so that it scarcely recognized it as his own, the news weighed heavy in his belly. There was little force behind the words so that he felt the need to clear his throat and repeated it more forcefully. �We must move at once, if necessary, we pull the watch off Lady Blakeney and concentrate on the other two. She�s safe if Sir Percy�s free � Chauvelin won�t harm her so long as she�s good for bait. What we need is details.� Hastings turned to Teresia and Moreau. Could they be trusted? �Why are you risking your lives for this? If we are to trust your information we must know.�

Beneath her olive skin, Teresia had turned white as a sheet. When she'd heard the men casually discussing the possibility of kidnapping a small child, her resolve to net the lot of them for the guillotine had strengthened, but now... what if the mob reached Sir Percy? She didn't give a damn about the other prisoners, they could be tortured, beaten, brutally murdered and hacked to pieces for all she cared; but the part of Teresia that was falling recklessly in love with that arrogant Englishman... the part of herself she had tried to ignore and conquer... was faced with the ultimate horror of never seeing him again, never hearing his voice, never getting the chance to... to... "The revolution gave me my freedom from my husband, the Marquis, but it carried a price. Chauvelin has asked things of me that go beyond what I am prepared to do for someone else's country, but one doesn't just walk away from him. In return for my help, I am hoping for protection... perhaps even a chance to return to Spain, or the Americas..."

Moreau listened as Teresia continued her tale. He thought her a convincing actress, but little realised how genuine were the emotions showing on her face. He himself was more curt in answering, "What you have out there, gentlemen, is an angry, unthinking mob. A pathetic display of human stupidity whipped into a violent frenzy by a couple of very clever orators. I've used the mob myself many times and I've seen where this kind of behaviour can lead if properly directed. So it's your choice... you can sit here and interrogate us," he indicated himself and Cabarrus, "until dawn, or you can let us help you rescue your friends whilst they're still alive to be rescued."

Lord Hastings said, 'We must move at once . . .' and Andrew got to his feet, moved behind Teresia's chair just as she began to speak. 'What you have out there, gentlemen . . . or you can let us help you rescue your friends whilst they're still alive to be rescued.'

"I think we need every hand we can get . . ." said John Hastings.

"But what if she's in Chauvelin's pay?" demanded Holte.

Andrew rolled his eyes. "I think she's already told you that she is, and that, in true Chauvelin style, he's won her enmity." Around the table several chins nodded in agreement. "It seems to me we have a key here," and he dropped his hand onto Cabarrus's shoulder, felt her start at the movement, then hold herself still, willing to wait and see what he intended to do. "I understand this *lady* - " he emphasised the term with derision "can walk through the walls of La Force. Since she's seen the chief and spoken to him, she's the best chance we have of locating him." He allowed his long fingers to play upon the bones of her shoulders, stroking her in a way that looked familiar. It was bold - too bold - but Andrew was playing a hunch.

"You lead a troupe of my friends to Sir Percy, Mme Cabarrus, and I will pay your passage anywhere you wish to go. Lord Hastings here, will confirm that I have the ear of our ambassador and can promise you safe conduct for your *effort*."

Once again he allowed his fingers to wander, stroking the fabric covering her collarbone. "And you, madame, will lend yourself entirely to the rescue of Blakeney. I'm sure you understand what I'm saying."

She swivelled her head to face him. Her dark eyes struck his sharp blues with a physical force and he offered her a slight grin. "That's right. Whatever is necessary to distract or amuse Monsieur Chauvelin, I expect you to provide. Whatever diversion is required so we can get Blakeney out of the prison. Am I in the range of your usual price, marquise?"

It was a stunning breach of etiquette for a man to touch a woman in public - it was an unheard of violation for him to treat her so intimately before the eyes of his companions. He was labelling her a whore, underscoring it with his dirty words. He hoped he'd guessed right, prayed Teresia understood that the men of the league would accept her as a sexual adventuress before they'd believe she may have motives of convoluted loyalty . . . but he remembered her in a wet shirt at the Fisherman's Rest, exhausted and vulnerable after her dramatic escape, and knew something of the kind of bargains Chauvelin made with people he felt could prove useful to his schemes.

'You lead a troupe of my friends to Sir Percy, Mme Cabarrus...' Philip's jaw worked as that statement sank home. The metallic taste of blood flirted with his mouth, drawn while biting his tongue, hard. Ffoulkes' faith had best not be misplaced here, else he'd just committed them all to stroll right into a trap. Another sip from his flask ebbed the rising ire enough for the man to trust himself to keep his actions - and words - in check. I pray you're not relying on luck alone here, Andrew. The silent plea filled the room, not only for the Pimpernel's sake, but the lives of the league, as well.

Moreau was already reaching for his sword, but stopped at a gesture from Teresia. She allowed Sir Andrew's hands to wander, watching them with feigned indifference. "If you believe that I could seduce Citizen Chauvelin, then you are insane. He knows me too well. It would be the quickest way to make all of us a head shorter! But your plan has possibilities. There are other ways of... distracting him." Lord alone knew what, but Teresia would have to think of something. Perhaps the rioting was already drawing his eagle eye elsewhere. "I will deal with Chauvelin with the help of two of you, whilst Citizen Moreau will take the rest to rescue your chief and your friend Bathurst. Probably best to dress as national guard. If this unrest gets worse they'll be looking for soldiers... credentials and faces won't be scrutinised as closely as usual." She glanced up into Ffoulke's eyes and gave a calm, but knowing smile. "Now take your hands off me, Sir Andrew, you can't afford me!"

Hastings guffawed loudly. In this too serious week, that was the exchange was wickedly funny � ridiculous in fact. �I should think I almost pity pitting you against that snake,� his wagged a finger at Teresia. �The man doesn�t stand a chance. I think I�ve just taken a liking to you, dear harlot.� The laughter died quickly. �Froggie, take Pru and secure our escape. I�ll take our revolutionary friend here to spring Lady Blakeney. I�ll be borrowing your sash John. I wouldn�t need more than two others. The rest for La Force.�

She took the ring and deftly tucked it into a safe place. She glanced around to identify Holte and Young John, as Ffoulkes had called him. "No sashes." she said to them, "Chauvelin would know that you are not officials."

Moreau stood up as Teresia did. He knew where Blakeney was and Teresia had told him where Bathurst was being held. It was simply a question of riding on the back of the mob.

The baronet slowly got to his feet. Tingling sensations stormed up and down the still-healing leg, causing him to pause a moment. He sighed, feeling very much older than he should. Lost faith usually spelled a lost battle. The man couldn't muster any hope for himself, but his focus returned to the more important matter of freeing the Pimpernel. Whether Glynde lost his head in the process mattered little, as long as Blakeney was recovered safely. After scanning the faces of all those present - friend and mistrusted ally alike - his eyes settled on Ffoulkes. Philip would do what was necessary to accomplish his part of the mission, even if it meant hurling himself straight into a trap woven by this unknown, and the marquise of questionable integrity in his care. His fist absently tapping the sting out of his thigh, the soldier in Glynde waited for his orders. It was like fidgeting impatiently while in line for the firing squad.

"I'll go with the marquise," Hastings stood up. He saw Holte roll his eyes. "I was seen with Bathurst just before his arrest, my face might be a liability. But Glynde is a good man to have in a tight spot." Glynde who have the sense to keep an eye on their nameless companion and should the man try anything treacherous Glynde would be the first to put a shiv through the man's ribs. "No fear, I'll an eye on the little lady, Citoyen� uh. Egad, I don't think I caught your name."

"Moreau," he replied, "Citoyen Andre-Louis Moreau." He wondered whether they would have heard his name before and watched for any change in Hastings' expression.

Teresia meanwhile was thinking fast. She had a plan which, provided she could lure Chauvelin away from the gaol and then detatch herself from him shortly thereafter, couldn't fail. If all went well, every Englishman here would be locked in La Force by day break. Failing that, she would have acquired a powerful and, more importantly, grateful protector in the guise of Sir Percival Blakeney Bart. Either way, she would take the credit and Chauvelin would suffer the humiliation of being bested by a woman.

'Moreau', the man replied to Hastings' question. Philip swallowed an exasperated sigh, and the impulse to smack his friends upside the head, one after another. They had divulged all the crucial information they had freely to a man they didn't even know, and who wore a revolutionary sash like a banner of his animosity towards them. Bloody Hell! Nevermind that marquise, who could get them all killed by the mob at any second, if her title were mentioned again, just a little louder. 'Andre-Louis Moreau"...Moreau...Philip's eyes narrowed, trying to place the name with the face. It rang a bell - several, in fact. At the moment, he was just not sure what exactly they stood for, however. This could mean one of two things: either it was very good news that they were speaking to this man, or incredibly bad.

The direness of their situation demanded he leave the puzzle for later. Either way, this mission called for more faith to be placed in people than he had. The baronet nodded to Moreau in acknowledgement of the introduction, and turned to Ffoulkes, and Hastings, raising an eyebrow, pointedly waiting for dismissal by his temporary 'commanders'. "If we're to get to him before the mob does, we'd best hurry."

�Moreau? You don�t say! He�s something of a celebrity here,� Hasting elbowed his brother. �The infamous... what did the papers call you... ah, yes... �Paladin of the Third Estate�. The royalists don�t paint too kind a picture of you in their papers, but from what I hear the brigands you�ve taken out weren�t playing above board. Play a square game here and you�ll continue to have my respect.� There was no point in threats for actions undone, threats just put people on their guard and alienated potential friends. Besides he figured he landed himself the more deadly of the two vipers.

�Madam, you�re with me,� Hasting extended his arm to her.

�I�ll go with the marquise,� Hastings�s voice was hard, and had in it an edge Ffoulkes had never heard from him before. �I was seen with Bathurst . . . my face might be a liability.� Ffoulkes had expected Lord Timothy to be conciliatory, or even defensive, but he'd not expected this tone so close to contempt. He was weary of considering the feelings of others, he wished beyond everything else that this job was over, over and done, and they were all going home to London where they belonged. Hastings looked like the man to finish this job; Andrew squared his shoulders, determined not to be bested . . . but, oh God, how tired he felt! He�d been thrown off-balance for a moment at the naming of Moreau, but the fact had sunk in now. Andr� Moreau, the most notorious swordsman in all Paris. The knowledge made Andrew uneasy. Used as he was to being the best, facing someone far beyond himself in skill was unnerving. He felt as if he�d lost his edge and it was hard beyond words to look Moreau in the face, so terrified was he that the man might read his own uncertainty. Uncertainty was deadly in a swordsman, and Andrew was not used to feeling so put off, but even as he was figuring all this out, the members of the league were choosing sides, and it was as predictable as an English rain on Sunday morning, that every man around the table was quick to offer his services to the marquise.

�Don�t bestir yourselves,� Andrew said, laughing softly, �I see that a trip to La Force is far down the list of amusements when compared to stealing Lady Blakeney from that wily skunk, Chauvelin!�

The marquise turned, stared up at him and ran her tongue over her lips.

�You�ve put me at a disadvantage,� Andrew said pointedly. A couple of the younger men fidgeted, but neither of them moved to the other side of the table. �It�s just as well, I suppose, that you�re taking most of the league on a scrimmage to retrieve Lady Blakeney; madame la marquise. You can send Holte to me when she�s free. It will put Sir Percy�s mind at ease to hear from someone who can attest he has seen her free with his own eyes to verify what we�ve done.�

Teresia tucked Sir Andrew�s ring into a safe place � somewhere inside the softness of her bosom, which elicited a few sighs and more than a few automatic changes in posture. The lady averted her eyes, pretending not to notice.

�I will take Froggie and Pru with me, seeing as how you�ve commandeered all the other men, marquise. We�ll march on La Force lookin� like one of LaFayette�s bands of guards and put ourselves at their disposal. As soon as we find ourselves on our own, we�ll work our way to Blakeney�s cell. Can you give me at least a hint where to look � La Force *is* three storeys tall, after all. Front, rear, left or right? First, second or third floor?� Andrew�s voice was tight with anxiety he was unable to conceal.

"I can take you there." replied Moreau. It had not been lost on him that the Englishman was avoiding his gaze, though he had no idea why. "You will need me to remove the guard at Blakeney's cell. I can order them to leave." he added in case the collected audience thought he intended to skewer them.

Teresia turned to Hastings and Holte. "You English love your hunting, si? I need you to play the... como se dice? el zorro... le renard... the fox, no? There is an inn between here and La Force with a bright green door and windows, do you know it?"

Philip dropped a hand on Ffoulkes' shoulder in a bid to help him calm a bit. The presence of a beautiful lady explained everyone's odd behavior, but the baronet knew it was fear for the Pimpernel's life that drove his men to flounder about. Chauvelin did well - take the head, and there is anarchy.

"It seems we have a guide," Glynde indicated Moreau, "though we don't know what is expected in return." he breathed only for Andrew to hear. The man in question stood a might straighter, waiting.

The baronet then stepped aside, beckoning the elder Hastings to join him for a moment. "Watch yourself." his eyes flicked towards the waiting Spanish beauty who seemed to fight the urge to tap her toe in impatience. Out of sight, Philip dropped one of his pistols in his friend's pocket. They clasped each other's forearms for likely the last time, exchanged a knowing look, then rejoined the group.

Philip stood just behind Ffoulkes, stopping short of nudging him forward, waiting for confirmation. Only Froggie and Pru reluctantly joined them, looking jealously after those with the lady. Hastings once again offered his arm to the marquise. The rest of them seemed hypnotized by the skirt. Philip almost wished he was among them, for they'd expect Moreau to step out of line, but this woman could easily catch most of the mooning calves off their game.

From Glynde�s and Ffoulkes�s expressions Hastings imagined that neither believed in the success of the mission and it was rubbing off on the others. �Andrew, whatever happens tell Percy that Marguerite is safe. By God, I�ll take the lumps if I�m wrong. But we can�t have him hesitating now,� Hastings told him before turning back to address Teresia. �Madame, we are charged with a very grave duty and you the most difficult of parts. If you can distract Chauvelin�� But the Lady was already ahead of him.

��There is an inn between here and La Force with a bright green door and windows, do you know it?"

Hastings glanced at Holte who nodded in confirmation. �Go on.�

"I want two of you to go there and be noticed. Don't draw enough attention to arouse suspicion amongst the patrons, just make sure that they remember that two men of your description were there and what direction you went in. I'll go to Chauvelin's house and convince him to pursue you with me. You'll have to lead us a merry dance across Paris for at least half an hour, before disappearing... just don't take us anywhere near La Force. That should give you, Senor," she looked at the elder of the Hastings brothers, "ample time to rescue Lady Blakeney."

The inn the Marquise spoke of was conveniently close to one of the league�s hideout, two doors away in fact. Unfortunately there was a back entrance to the building which might allow them a the opportunity of a quick change before rendezvousing to the rescue party, Hastings thought. �John, you and Holte do as she said. If there is any sign of trouble you have your fallbacks.� The younger Hastings nodded. �When you�ve finished your little performance, find a coach and meet with Lady Blakeney and I.�

Then turning to the Marquise. �You have four lives in your hands, Madame� are you certain that there will be no repercussions against you for your part in this? We can make arrangements to spirit you out of the city as well, if need be.�

"If I risked nothing, senor, it would cheapen my efforts." she replied and turned away to tell Moreau exactly where he could find Bathurst. She wasn't risking her life... her plan had so many fail-safes... she was risking her heart. If she lost that to Blakeney, she was doomed... there was no safety net behind that particular stable door. She had to remain focused, so she busied herself with the arrangements little realising that, as far as her heart was concerned, the horse had already left the stable and was cantering free without her.

Dispiritedly, Andrew weighed their options against a sense of impending disaster he couldn�t seem to shake. Moreau was introduced and the faces among the group brightened. Infamous Paladin of the Third Estate, indeed! If he was so keen to destroy the monarchy, why was he volunteering his services here, among a band of royalist Englishmen? Andrew rubbed his eyes as if the whole thing had become too much for him to follow. Whatever it was that was wrong here, it was too late to worry about it now; he had to rely on Moreau and Teresia � he didn�t have the time to find Blakeney without them.

�It seems we have a guide,� Glynde said in his bored tone that often seemed to be a precise mimic of Percy�s own. Ffoulkes faced Glynde, and in a sudden shuffle of bodies, found himself rubbing shoulders with the man. �Though we don't know what is expected in return,� Glynde mouthed in Andrew�s direction. It comforted Ffoulkes considerably knowing that Glynde, too, felt the current of uncertainty inhabiting the group this afternoon.

Abruptly Glynde turned away to Hastings, crowding his other side, and muttered something else to him.

�Ah, bien,� Andrew said in a raised tone. �Let�s sort ourselves out and get to work.� As he jostled past, he watched Philip drop one of his pistols in Hastings�s pocket. Ffoulkes glanced up and saw a look of understanding pass between the two friends as they clasped each other's forearms. Automatically, Andrew�s hand dropped to his sword hilt, then bumped the pocket where his own pistol hid. Closing his eyes he sensed his knife, securely hugging his thigh, and felt his heartbeat steadying.

�Ffoulkes,� Hastings called. Andrew turned back just as Lord Edward clasped his shoulder. �Whatever happens tell Percy that Marguerite is safe . . . I�ll take the lumps if I�m wrong.�

�Oh, don�t worry, I�d already intended to shift the blame for all this onto you. Without Tony here to take the lumps, it had to be you!� Andrew joked. He could read terror in Hastings�s eyes � and this from a man who never showed fear. It was Teresia, Andrew realized. The presence of Teresia and the code of honour due a woman � especially a woman of rank. It didn�t matter how he�d tried to reduce her status, these men had honour bred in the bone.

As they fell into their groups in the street, Ffoulkes wondered whether Percy�s life was worth the loss of even one of their number. Blakeney wouldn�t think so � he knew that � but then, Blakeney never expected to lose.

�There is an inn between here and La Force with a bright green door and windows,� said Mme Cabarrus, motioning down the road with an expressive hand. �Do you know it?�

Hastings glanced at Holte who nodded in confirmation and the two of them turned in that direction, quick-trot, and they were off. As soon as they departed, Andrew knew it was wrong.

�We shouldn�t further divide our numbers,� he said in Glynde�s direction. �We�re already splintered into four distinct groups . . . depleting our man-power.�

Glynde and Ffoulkes exchanged glances, Glynde frowning, his ruddy cheeks whitening as he absorbed Ffoulkes�s complaint. He nodded almost imperceptibly. �What about Vigor?� Andrew asked. �Sir George should still be watching Chauvelin�s apartment, which throws the majority of our league rushing after Lady Blakeney.�

Sir Philip smiled with a regretful shake of his head. Ffoulkes put two fingers into his mouth and whistled at the departing figures. Lord Edward pulled up and shrugged at Ffoulkes. He and Holte argued among themselves, then Holte jogged back. Ffoulkes met him part way.

�Froggie, d�you know if Plancher has dispatched the others?�

Holte blinked. �Didn�t I tell you?� Young Anthony Holte rolled his eyes upward as if quoting from memory, �Stowmarries and Vigor are watching Chauvelin�s hideout, Kulmstead and MacKenzie are watching La Force. Fanshawe . . .�

�Good,� Ffoulkes said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. �Sorry to have slowed you down. Make sure that everyone leaves Chauvelin�s place with Lady Blakeney � we don�t want to lose anymore men in this god-cursed city!� Glynde smiled at Sir Andrew � the first smile anyone had seen from him in far too long � and said with a touch of malice, �I won�t wager how many of those puppies are likely to leave their skins here.�

Ffoulkes laughed. �Not so many as you might think, my friend! The one thing we still own is a measure of surprise.� Glynde was too startled to hide his surprise; Andrew knew he was wondering what had dragged him out of his earlier apathy.

�Wallescourt,� Andrew called. Young Sir Jeremiah stepped forward and clicked his heels in a very British way. �Mount up and go to Saint-Antoine. Alert Saint Denys, Fanshawe and Galveston that they�re needed near La Force. Not right at the prison, but in the first place where they can park a cart. Tell them to wait . . . uh, have one rendezvous with Kulmstead and give him the location of the cart. Three men and a cart. Two for diversion. Two captives who may not be able to walk. Uh, Sir Jeremiah . . . ask Plancher to spare us his coach. Drive it to the address Lady Cabarrus will provide � Chauvelin�s apartment. Not too close. Beyond sight of the windows, but close enough so that Lady Blakeney doesn�t have far to go. When you have her, wait for no one. Don�t spare the horses, either, just head straight for Dover. Got it?�

Glynde, perception dawning, was frowning once more. "Dividing our numbers . . .�

"God knows, Philip, you�re not all that good at reading people, but you do know that Sir Percy wouldn�t have demanded this level of presence if we were to fritter away the manpower. In the final count there are only two battlefronts, yes?�

Glynde nodded.

�Right. So we concentrate everyone on those two fronts, minimizing our losses as well as the chance that our allies are not to be trusted.�

Glynde�s eyes brightened at that, as Andrew knew they would. *Yes,* he nodded at his friend, *we are dancing the same dance, after all.*

Hastings impatiently tapped his foot as Cabarrus conferred with her guardian. Waiting for the moment it appeared she got her message across, Hastings stepped in to prod her along. �Madame, we really must go now,� he repeated firmly. �My friends and yours must make haste if they are to succeed, as are we.�

She gave Hastings her arm and, with one final glance towards Moreau, left the inn. "We must part before we are in sight of Chauvelin's home. I will go in alone. You must wait until I leave again with Chauvelin before entering the building."

This thread is continued from High Stakes

This thread is continued in Mission Improbable and Wild Goose Chase

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