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Before the Storm
The night, with its pale moon casting weird shadows through the tangle of cobbled streets, made his palms itch. All of his instincts – those hailed in every salon and ball he has had the honor of attending these last few months – they all warned that something had gone wrong tonight, terribly wrong. Surely the sight of that particularly loathsome creature Chauvelin with his bloodthirsty ways certainly had not improved matters, but he liked to believe that perhaps he was not simply over-reacting to his arch-nemesis being here, in London of all places. And with his wife!
If she had said but a word, a single word, and he would have thrown the wretch into the street with great satisfaction. But la! She laughed, that gay little laugh he still loved so well, and allowed the creature into her confidences, gracing him with her smiles. He should expect as much, he knows – she is a proven Republican, this Marguerite St. Just, now Lady Blakeney. Of course she would be happy to see one of the terrorists here, to lend interest to a life now lived with a dolt of a husband. Odds fish, if it didn’t make a man furious. But no, trusting that his ego has not become over-rampant, he could say that it wasn’t just that dark apparition that had set him on edge. Something in the very air had called to him, or so it seemed – if he were the sort to play it safe, he should be flying along to Richmond now, whipping four fine steeds into a lather to whisk himself and his lady wife away from these odd, elusive currents. That, however, would hardly be sporting, and there were the others to think of. They may need some word, some guidance, before the next bout was to begin, and it could be precious difficult to properly discuss matters in France!
The clatter of wheels against cobblestones changed pitch as the carriage rolled into the drive of the Foreign Office, sliding into the queue with barely a jolt. Blakeney, idly polishing his monocle, looked across to his companion. Lady Blakeney, the immensely intelligent and charming Marguerite, sat in perfect repose. The light from the torches outside caught accents in her fair hair and made the ruby flowers on her hair pins sparkle as her eyes did not. He had not seen aught but scorn and disdain – or worse, complete dismissal - from those fine eyes since he learned of her treachery. He had thought, more than once, to reveal all, to beg her forgiveness for ever believing her capable of such a horrific act… but no. No, not when the lives of so many may depend on it. Not when, even now, she has refused to deny it. She turned from her contemplation of the passing grounds to look at him, giving him ample time to pull the mask of urbanity into place. Lazily he replaced the monocle before his right eye, and steeled his heart against the dismissive expression on her face.
“La, madam.” The jester drawled to his erstwhile queen, “An impressive sight, what? Perhaps your little friend will admire the view.” The little start she made was like a dagger to his heart – she had been thinking of her countryman, after all. “Though I much doubt it,” He added on, in what he would admit to himself was a flash of mean-spiritedness, “A man who would appear in Society with a coat of that atrocious cut lacks fine sensibility.” The scorn deepened on her face, hiding what, he could almost believe he saw, was a flicker of… what? Sorrow? Fear? It called to mind those unfortunates of France, victims of the blood lust of their fellow man. He did not think to see it here. That impulse that drove him into a hundred, a thousand daring and well-nigh fatal plots made him lean forward, his mask beginning to slip…
Light blazoned into the carriage as the footman opened the door to allow the baronet and his lady disembark. His chance gone, and thinking better of making such a step in any case, Percy alighted from the carriage and held out his arm to assist Marguerite. She stepped down daintily, her hand light as a restive bird, and again in the flickering light of the torches he thought he saw…
“Sir Blakeney!” The voice was rich, booming, and gracious – the Prince of Wales, who had been rumored to be attending this ball, waved an imperious hand from where he had stepped from his own coach just ahead. As they approached, answering the prince’s call, Percy noted that his liege’s sense of fashion had continued its astronomical growth – salmon, so bold a color, so very unlike the dull greens and browns the man had been fond of mere months before. Of course his cravat and lace were in perfect state – the man’s personal servant would have to be something of an idiot to fail to send the future king out in anything less.
“Lady Blakeney, you honor us with your beauty tonight.” The Prince smiled as they both made their obeisance to him. “Would you allow me to escort you within… with your permission, of course, Sir Blakeney? I am afraid I should be jealous if such a fine jewel were to grace another man’s arm.” There was something of a warning in the Prince’s tone that brought Percy’s head up a bit sharply from his bow. So he was not the only one, feeling this un-explained tension tonight. He had never told the Prince about his role as the infamous Scarlet Pimpernel. After all, the Prince, in his position, could hardly go gallivanting with them, and – Heaven Forefend! – should the worst ever happen, the Prince could honestly say he was never told the identities of the English gallants. Nevertheless, within a few months of the start of their schemes, Percy noted that the Prince seemed… very oddly accepting and accommodating of some demmed odd behavior in his court. Conscious of the sycophants that forever surrounded the Prince, Blakeney bowed again, gracefully transferring his lady’s tiny hand to that of the Prince with a laugh.
“I’faith, m’lud, she looks better on your arm than about my sorry person. Brilliance and brilliance should go in together… what?” Marguerite flashed her new escort a sunny, heartbreaking smile, and in that moment Percy found it in him to be jealous of his liege. But then they were entering the Foreign Office, the Prince in the center, flanked by his two friends.
They walked straight into the waiting arms of Revolutionary France. Waiting beside Lord Grenville, M. Chauvelin cast a pall on the atmosphere, deepened as his wife greeted the cad with such joy. He watched behind his foppish mask as introductions were made, including those of the Cometesse de Tournay, looking much improved from when he had last seen her huddled against the bottom of the market cart in Paris. She had regained her pride, which had been so crushed in Paris. Just when he thought he could safely step away from this ghastly interlude, the young Vicomte de Tournay gushed – good Gad, the boy had the most horrific sense of timing! – about his beloved savior. Hah! Some day, far in the future it might be, he looked forward to informing the impertinent child of that savior’s identity, if only to provide warning against challenging everyone in England to a demmed duel. It was something of a wonder the boy survived so long in Paris without drawing undue attention to himself. Pleasant thoughts of lessoning the young idiot occupied him until he heard a chance to put an end to the speculation, breaking in on the battle of words between the Prince and Chauvelin with a laugh made easy with such frequent practice, spilling into the silence created by his wife’s fervent praise of his alter-ego. The irony of the situation added a faintly bitter note to his habitual drawl.
“And we poor husbands, we have to stand by…” He smiled, peering through his monocle at Chauvelin’s dark, dour figure, “While they worship a demmed shadow.” The effect was immediate, as those who had come for spectacle and entertainment laughed at his sally, and the Prince laughed along, loud and booming. He wished to escape into one of the side-rooms as soon as was possible, his pique over hearing his wife greet Chauvelin so cheerfully erasing any wish to stay by her side. He even, moved to anger when he had so few ways of showing it, threw a bit of doggerel in Chauvelin’s face – an inane little poem that he knew would be taken up by these, the bright and shining glitterati of England, and repeated until the little brute was well sick of it. Let him chew on that! And let him think that such a simple little rhyme was the best fair England could supply from its own stock of aristos. The further he lowered himself in Chauvelin’s estimation, the safer he, and those who depended on him, were. Besides, the look sheer effrontery and muzzled rage on the demmed idiot’s face was priceless the first time the little ditty was recited to him. He would have to make use of it in the future, to be sure, if that was the expected reaction.
Free from that deucedly unpleasant situation, he idly swanned through the opulent rooms, affecting utter ignorance of the conversations around him and learning one or two very interesting things spoken by well-heeled dignitaries in their native tongues. A plot from Belgium to liberate the Dauphin – noble, but a little too unsubtle for his tastes; a Spanish ploy to sweep the imprisoned French queen to freedom – he wished them luck, but doubted they would get it; an Italian scheme to put down the pack of Terrorists before their madness could spread… Hah! Everyone was scheming, it seemed, but he had only to look across to the dancing hall and see the young Vicomte treading the measured paces of a minuet to know that of all of these, only one country had thus far succeeded in bringing defeat to the doors of those inhuman beasts who now ruled the once-beautiful France. Of course, it would help if he could find at least one of his fellow conspirators in this throng – he hadn’t been able to find Ffoulkes or Dewhurst at the opera, despite having used that venue before to at least check in on one another, so he hadn’t been able to give them further details on where they should meet here. As for the other seventeen men… he knew three, at least, should be here – Lord Hastings, Sir Galveston, and Lord Stowmarries, besides the two he cannot seem to lay hands on tonight. Five men in total, and demmed if he can find a single one of them. This bordered a trifle on the ludicrous, to be honest. Clearly they were going to have to work out some other manner of communicating if this was how…
His whirling thoughts screeched to a sudden stop when he heard, from the other side of an open doorway, the muffled sounds of sobbing. Too often he had heard sounds like these of late, and despite his outrageous successes, too many unfortunates have been lost to Madame la Guillotine for his liking. Still, that was hardly the cause here! So he hoped, anyway – he would have to have words with Lord Grenville if he had outfitted his party with a replica of that grim creation. The room beyond the doorway turned out to be a small sitting room, decorated by someone with surprisingly good taste, and a small fire burned in the hearth. On the couch before the fire, a young girl huddled, her frocks in careless disarray, her little fan lying forgotten beside her as she sobbed into her dainty hands. Percy winced – he so did hate seeing a beautiful woman cry, even (or perhaps, especially) a young one. Since his men seemed to have abandoned him, and there was no one else about to lend assistance, Percy strode into the room, making sure to make enough noise to give the young woman enough time to at least attempt to regain her composure. It was all for naught, however – even the sound of his firm tread against the hard floor failed to rouse her from her misery. Grave times indeed! Pulling the mask of innocent buffoonery a little tighter down around his person, he bowed to the grief-stricken maiden.
“Your pardon, your ladyship, but I could not help but overhear…” He started, hearing her gasp in startled surprise. At least she had stopped weeping. He unfolded himself and offered one of his handkerchiefs, the sovereign cure for crying ladies.
“If I might offer, without being too indelicate…?” She sniffled, as she took it in her own tiny hand, so pale and frail-looking next to his own. He frowned slightly in his own surprise – this young maiden he recognized. She was one of the flock introduced to court this spring, the only daughter of a somewhat pompous lord… Lord Beecham, if memory served. Now, the girl’s name…
“Miss Mary Beecham, I presume?” He hit upon with a flash of inspiration, laughing softly at her startled expression. “I’m a somewhat useless fellow, but I never would forget a pretty girl’s name, what? That would be poor manners.” His drawl and laugh in combination brought a smile to her face, tremulous though it might be. She dabbed her tears away, regaining her composure in the face of his stolidly and properly British manners.
“Sir Percy Blakeney.” Ah, so someone’s done the job of making sure she remembers the names of the peerage and those honored to be associated with them, “Thank you, sir, for your kindness.”
“Not at all, Miss Beecham. What are fellows like myself good for, I ask you, if not for stopping the weeping of young maidens?” Evidently he hadn’t pitched his tone quite right, because all of his hard work in helping her regain her equilibrium was undone in a moment as her face crumpled into misery.
“Oh!” She cried, further distressing the already much alarmed baronet, “If only all young men thought as you did! But he has broken my heart forever!” In that moment, Percy believed fervently that Miss Beecham and the young Vicomte should get on like a house afire, if he could get them into the same room. They shared the same sense of the dramatic. Still, there was a decided lull in the conversation – evidently he was expected to reply.
“Forever, sweet miss? I’faith, but that does seem a mighty deed – what knave has done this?” He drawled, and from her expression he deduced that she was deciding whether or not she should be insulted by his words. Finally she gave in to the obvious draw of telling someone her heart-rending tale of woe. And such a tale it was. Indeed, if it had gone on much longer, he would have been in great danger of tumbling into the fireplace, dead asleep. It seemed to focus, as far as he could tell, on how she and another of the younger ladies who flitted about the balls both had their hearts set on catching a young rakehell Percy had heard mentioned a few too many times in connection with unsavory deals and shadowy trysts to believe he was good for much other than a sound thrashing. Tonight matters had come to a head, when the demmed idiot had the nerve (or perhaps just the good sense!) to spend most of the night dancing with a third young lady, very publicly, thus crushing the heart of this fair maiden. Good Gad. Sometimes he was very glad indeed he never had a sister. It took a good deal of fancy verbal footwork to win himself free after that – it seemed that not even a married man was safe from the romantic designs of these desperate young things, their heads too full of the fluff their overwrought minders nattered on about. Though, by the time he’d left, she’d looked rather more hopeful… or perhaps that was more predatory? He feared for the unmarried males tonight, poor unwary creatures that they were!
He found his own target, young Lord Edward Hastings, idly and helpfully occupying a fairly abandoned corner of a less-favored drawing room, and cornered him in search of news.
“My lord,” Percy bowed, allowing Edward to do the same – public propriety had to be maintained, even if the last time he had seen this young buck, both of them had been head-to-toe filth, egging on a particularly helpful crowd of French rabble while four others of their company snuck the two young children of the Marquis de Beaulieu into an awaiting false-bottomed cart.
“Sir Blakeney.” The young man replied, his eyes warm with that loyalty Percy had come to rely on heavily at times. “I see you have exceeded yourself in the tying of your cravat.” He drawled, waving an elegant hand towards the voluminous and airy folds of Percy’s cravat with an air of affected interest. Percy smiled to himself as he soothed one of the elaborate twists – trust Hastings to give him an opening so easily!
“In truth, m’lud, the devilish thing tormented me all day – I thought perhaps of staying home in shame, unable to tame this length of lace and linen, but at last I discovered the trick of what I envisioned… here man, I will arrange yours more properly, and show you the way of it.” Quickly he undid the ruffles of his friend’s cravat and began the task of re-assembling them into the new fashion, using the ripples of fabric to hide the small note he slipped under the knot of the cravat. This was hardly the place to discuss League matters but, seeing as they would have to return to France soon, it was best that he arranged a pre-ordained time and place for them to gather. At the end of a flurry of elaborate arranging, Percy loudly declared Lord Hastings to be the picture of gentlemanly elegance, inviting those around them to do the same. In the shower of accolades that followed, he managed to disengage from his friend and slip out from the crowd.
Fate, however, was against him – just as soon as he’d stepped away from the chattering throng, he came nose to nose with that detestable Chauvelin creature. Well. Nose to chest, at any rate. The noble English turkey, as his gorgeous wife had named him, peered down at the slight Republican, affecting a distinctly bored air.
“Ah, Monsieur… Chambertin! Ah no, sink me, but these foreign names are hard to cotton on to – Chauvelin, forgive me.” He prattled, deeply enjoying the look of annoyance that flashed across Chauvelin’s face. “And I am very sorry.” The puzzlement that chased the annoyance was also deeply satisfying.
“You are… sorry? Whatever for?” Chauvelin replied in puzzlement, the usual urbanity of his manner slipping somewhat in the face of this solidly English fop. “It seems rather monstrous,” Percy replied, burying the glee he felt at being able to openly taunt his arch-nemesis,
“That you should be forced to appear thus so poorly dressed.” Muffled effrontery followed confusion, and Percy could not resist digging a little harder. “Surely you bloodthirsty fellows have not executed all of your tailors?” The resulting scornful and stiff-necked attempt to defend the blood-stained Revolution was everything he could have hoped. He was saved from the folly of continuing to dig at his enemy when a servant came with the Prince’s request that Blakeney face him at the hazard table. Percy bowed shortly to Chauvelin and, with the air of a mis-behaving schoolboy, followed the servant off, whistling the tune of his recently-created rhyme carelessly. Ah, thank the Fates for these small mercies to so brighten his day!
He was deep in a game of hazard with the Prince, and some considerable sum ahead of where he had started, when a servant stepped to the Prince’s elbow to announce that Lord Dewhurst and Sir Ffoulkes had arrived. The Prince grumbled something about the rogues being beyond fashionably late, but Percy thought he noted, somewhere in that royal urbanity, a flash of relief. It was, of course, well known that those two gallants were part of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel – it was somewhat unavoidable, since they could hardly just dump their rescued unfortunates over the side of whatever ship they sailed in, just to avoid explanations on this side of the Channel. It seemed prudent, early on, to use those two as the public face of the League – young, merry, personable, those two could talk themselves out of an interview with the devil himself without any guidance from him, and could be relied on to be discrete at all times. Of course, that was before he knew they could disappear so readily, and without a word! Again he felt that all was not as it should be, or even as well as it could be with that blood-stained fiend roaming the Foreign Office.
But the gong rang for dinner, and it would be the height of poor manners, never mind poor tactics, to go hunting for his two rogue friends just now. So he dug into his role of brainless fop – word play, such an easy and trivial game, perfected now for so long as he used this guise to hide his more adventurous nature. The Prince’s table, he had found, was not much different than those fraternal tables now spread throughout France – a bit of well-regulated idiocy was appreciated at both, though a few of the vulgarities needed editing, and the food was, thankfully, of a better sort. His wife was in fine spirits – her sallies at his expense were even more pointed than usual, and her frequent glances in Chauvelin’s direction were enough to enrage the most placid husband – but no. His weakness of earlier this evening had passed, and he was now once again firmly committed to his path. Let her enjoy the terrorist’s thin and humorless smiles, his cruel wit. She had made her choice, even before he met her. Blakeney studiously saw his Prince off after dinner had concluded, politely ignoring the other man’s somewhat worried attempts to assure him that Marguerite was not, even now, off in some corner with a French Republican paramour. He thought to seek out Ffoulkes – the man had seemed vaguely harried at supper, despite his charm, but last he saw the poor soul had been cornered by the formidable Lady Portarles – Lud help him, the good lady had been trying, with increasing boldness, to capture Ffoulkes for her own daughter. He felt sorry for the poor creature – she was not gifted with outstanding beauty, but seemed a kind soul all the same, and her over-ambitious mother could hardly make matters more easy for her. He had no desire to be caught into that particular web of grasping desperation, so he steered clear of his lieutenant for the time being. Dewhurst, however, he was able to lay hands on without undue effort, quietly drawing the gallant aside under the guise of taking the young buck to task for his slightly disheveled appearance.
“You two left it rather late, did you not?” Blakeney murmured as he did his best to straighten the wrinkles in Antony’s overcoat. The rather harrowing tale he got in return – in bits and muttered pieces between louder comments about the finer points of fashion - made him stare until he gathered his scattered wits and drew Antony further away from any possible eavesdropping ears. At the end of it, he was willing to forgive his two lieutenants of anything, except maybe of being captured in the first place… but who would expect such a bold move so early in the game, on their own soil! Or, at least, he was so prepared, until Antony ended with studied innocence: ‘And of course Blakeney, we would have been much earlier, but Ffoulkes thought, perhaps, a trinket for his new fair lady….’
“Indeed?” Percy interrupted, peering down his nose at the impudent rogue who, all in a moment, had realized the depth of his mistake revealing that last detail. “Then I find I do have it in me to take revenge.” Antony straightened, and Percy was hard-pressed not to smile in pride when the young lord declared he would bear any punishment Percy metted out without complaint. However, smiling would ruin the moment entirely – instead he clapped a hand on the gallant’s shoulder and steered him, with all outward appearance of brotherly companionship, towards the dancing hall. He then leaned down just enough so he could instruct Antony, in the voice of grim Fate: “Lo, the gavotte will begin soon. And there is Miss Mary Beecham without a suitable partner. That will not do, Lord Dewhurst.” He chuckled lowly at Antony’s sudden gulp of dismay, but true to his word, he did not hesitate before plunging through the crowd to meet his doom. Percy, for his part, did not stay to watch that particular drama play out. He had to be in the library soon, to make sure all was well in hand prior to their next desperate plunge into the heart of bloodstained France.