Author's Note: Within the Scarlet Pimpernel Series, there are contradicting accounts of who is older, Marguerite or Armand. For the purposes of this story, Armand is four years younger than Marguerite, and Chauvelin is just plain old.

No, I don't own any of them. If I did, I'd have far better things to do with them than write stories. evil glimmer in eyes

"Take it back you filthy rotten liar!"

"I'm not a liar and I won't take it back!"

"Take it--"

The eleven year old suddenly found himself being lifted off his friend by the back of his collar. His intended victim took advantage of his attacker's disablement, leapt to his feet, and fled. "Coward!" shouted the first boy, twisting around in an attempt to loose his collar and see who had stopped the fight. The man turned him around.

"Armand St. Just."

Armand stopped struggling. Although he had reached that rebellious street-gamine age, he was still rather intimidated by the tall black-clad figure called Paul Armand Chauvelin. Chauvelin let go of the boy's shirt, while Armand gave him a sullen glare.

"Pierre started it," he muttered.

"Pierre Routabille? I should have known it would be the two of you," admonished Chauvelin. Armand made to slip off, but the man caught him by the arm. "Oh no you don't." With his free hand, Chauvelin fished out his handkerchief and began swiping at Armand's bloody lip. The boy squirmed.

"I am old enough to go home and clean up by myself," he grumbled. Chauvelin gave him an amused smile.

"I am well aware of that. However, considering the fit your sister is going to throw when she sees the state you're in, I think perhaps you should let me walk you home. That way you can practice what you're going to tell her."

Armand grudgingly allowed himself to be lead down the street. His escort had a curious ability to make one feel his gaze, and Armand could certainly feel Chauvelin watching him, waiting for his explanation. Finally he spoke. "Pierre called me a sissy and said I was too much a girl. So I punched him."

Chauvelin chuckled a little despite himself. "My dear boy," he said with a smile, "I doubt you would ever get into a fight merely because someone called you a name. Your sister raised you far better than that. What else did he say that got you so upset?"

They walked on in silence for a while.

"He…" Armand started, then burst out, "he called Marguerite a whore, and said she only started acting because her lover wouldn't marry her. I had to defend her honor, so I did." Armand's brow was stubbornly furrowed. Chauvelin stopped walking.

"Ever the little gentleman, eh? Now tell me, where the devil would this Pierre of yours get a notion like that about Margot having a lover? That idea is entirely absurd."

Armand shrugged. "He probably got it from gossip, same as every rumor. I mean, when a girl is out at all times of day, and night, with a man, people will talk. After all, sometimes you don't bring her home 'til three in the morn-" Armand winced as he realized his slip.

Chauvelin kept his amused smile, but a strange glimmer had crept into his eyes. "Well, well, Margot's innocent baby brother has the makings of a brilliant little spy. And all this time she thought you were sound asleep. So, word on the street is that your sister and I have taken up more illicit nighttime activities?" Chauvelin resumed walking, steering Armand with him. Armand reddened a little. He shouldn't have said anything; it was none of his business if Marguerite wanted to "take up" with a gentleman. But then, he wanted to take care of her as much as she took care of him.

"I'm not a baby. I'm eleven now."

"And I am thirty, which makes you and you sister babies next to me. You're trying to change the subject."

"Well, you two do spend a lot of time together."

Chauvelin snorted. "You sound like I did at your age." Armand looked up at him in surprise. Chauvelin finally broke into a grin. "Come now, surely you're not accusing your poor old Uncle Paul of seducing your sister, are you?" Even Armand had to laugh at how absurd the notion sounded. "Uncle Paul", who he had know since the age of four, running off with Margot? They both chuckled as Chauvelin looked down the street. "Why don't you run along home and clean up. I'll go see if I can intercept your sister so you have plenty of time to think up a good story about the fight." Without second bidding, Armand raced down the block to the flat the clean up.

Chauvelin pondered over the boy's words as he waited outside the theatre for Marguerite. It was true; he did sometimes bring her home quite late. They had always been careful, trying to avoid waking the boy. The last thing Margot wanted was her little brother getting ideas about her. It was hard enough for her to accept that she was reduced to moonlighting as a housekeeper for one of her dearest friends. Yet, she and Chauvelin both knew she could not support herself and her brother on the meager salary she made taking bit roles at the theatre. That was why they had come up with this arrangement…wasn't it?

"Paul!" Chauvelin quickly brought his attention to the bright-eyed fifteen year old who had run up to meet him. Margot stood on tiptoe to plan a kiss on his cheek. "I've been looking all over for you! You were late."

Chauvelin smiled, gave her his customary peck on the forehead, and they began walking. "My apologies, Margot. You see, on my way here I a bit distracted by the sight of a small boy, who looked rather like your brother, tearing down the street toward your flat…"