In the third act of Gluck's incomparable Orpheus and Eurydice, the reunited couple were making their way back to Earth from Hades. But most eyes in the Covent Garden Theatre abandoned the lovers in the wood at the stir in the Blakeney box. Lady Blakeney's delectable loveliness and Sir Percy's sartorial splendor were lodestones. With every society event that they graced, their power to attract increased.
Percy settled back in his luxurious seat, having bowed in response to the salute from the Royal Box and to Pitt's genial wave. Priorities in order, he acknowledged the considerable number of his acquaintances in that star studded gathering with brief nods. The perpetual boredom that now mantled his face was calculated to impress any observer that the musical fare was not making much of an impression on the exquisite dandy. Not that it was such a difficult task, he mused. His wife's intense absorption in the opera was such a perfect foil to set off his ostensible inability to rise to any sort of advanced intellectual activity, including musical appreciation.
His wife. Despite his somnolent air, he was aware that the scrutiny occasioned by her radiant beauty extended beyond the fanfare of their entrance. His eyes lit upon the luxuriously mounted box opposite theirs. Lord Grenville's. He was accompanied by a man in immaculate black. Seeing the stranger's eyeglass leveled at Lady Blakeney, Percy idly supposed that the man was yet another poor fool caught in the toils of Marguerite's charm. Like so many insignificant moths drawn to the flame of her enchantment. Or was comparing his wife's allure to Circe a better metaphor? With vehement bitterness, Percy chided himself that he was a glutton for punishment.
Their conjugal relations were hardly a novelty… and quite the fashion in the circles in which they moved. But Marguerite's acerbic wit and good natured contempt of her husband were considered an interesting variant. Percy had to admit and admire the poise with which Marguerite balanced herself at the pinnacle of London society. For all that his wife had been on the stage, her conduct as a grande dame always became the exalted position she graced. Unconventional she was (which popular verdict condoned as 'foreign' eccentricity), but always charmingly so and always a step ahead of the coterie of jealous female wags who defined the bounds of Propriety. Years of being on the stage had made his wife past mistress at the science of keeping her admirers at bay and distributing her favours with a democratic flourish, charming to all but particular to none.
Who would know better than him? In fact, it was quite a sensation that the incomparable Marguerite had not yet taken on a lover (after all, she was French; was it not inevitable?). Percy considered himself above being affected by the mindless pursuits of the privileged class of which he was a part. Nevertheless, it had been rankling to learn of the bets laid at several exclusive clubs in London as to which lucky rake would storm Lady Blakeney's citadels and add the former actress as a crown to a list of conquests. Beneath the elaborate fall of his sleev's Mechlin lace, his hand fisted at the very memory. Something no one glancing at the baronet's lounging figure could have imagined. Blakeney stretched his length and yawned but his mind lingered on the few effective words in certain select ears that had checked the vulgar bandying of his wife's name. For all that he seemed to be the most benign and harmless of souls that graced London society, falling afoul of England's richest man and the Regent's closest friend was definitely not advisable.
He wondered why he had bothered. He didn't care for the obvious answer.
On stage, Selina Storace trilled the heart rending confusion of Eurydice as her husband walked ahead, neither glancing at her nor holding her hand: Did Orpheus no longer love her? Why would he not look back at her? Just one glimpse… Was one look too much to ask?
The brief glance he shot at Marguerite unfortunately collided with her contemptuous glare of annoyance. His yawns and other somnolent affectations had clearly disturbed her. He marshalled the inane smile, that could always be relied upon to infuriate his wife and turn her attention away from him. Damn Gluck.
The irony. The curve of his lips fleetingly hardened to a cynical twist as he recalled his first glimpse of her on stage. The saucy lilt of her voice, her exquisite poise, the lightest motion of her hands had captivated the glittering firmament of Parisian society and brought them in homage to her feet. It had been the last night she was known as 'that protégé of Louis St. Just'. Marguerite had come into her own.
Couched in the privileges due to his wealth, power, connections, Percy had never known the kind of helplessness that overpowered him that first night. A mere two hours in her company later that evening culminated in his mad dash to the East in an attempt to escape, to evade the magnetism of her rapier wit, to forget the wonder of her beauty. Her luminous eyes, the shimmer of her unpowdered hair...Bah! one would have been hard pressed to find a greater snivelling blockhead.
He clenched his teeth against a sigh at the irony of it all. Even now, she held his heart as surely as she did then. He despised the fact that not even her deception, not even blood stained hands could dethrone her from his heart.
But now he had learnt to survive.
Now he was past master in skirting an encounter with those deep, violet eyes. Now that she was his wife.
And he the most envied man in England as he played court jester and second fiddle to her.
As he surveyed the stage through his eyeglass, Percy knew that his mask was in place. Even if his armor was not. Nothing betrayed how the magic of her presence played havoc on his keen senses. How hauntingly beautiful she was tonight! The thought kept hammering at his tortured consciousness. He had had no escape since the moment she had came down to meet him in their drawing room earlier that evening. Dressed in a short waisted classical gown, the gold sparkles of her gown had danced in the candlelight and bathed her in a glory that was unearthly. She had come straight to him, extending her hands gloved in satin and gems. And worse…she was disposed to be generous with him tonight.
However tempting the thought, he knew that it had nothing to do with the exquisitely worked Florentine necklace, which was the latest trinket that he had sent up to her. It graced her throat, embraced it,… but was shamed before the brilliance of her eyes as she thanked him for the gift. She was as radiant, as the first time their lips met in an unforgettable kiss. Less than a year ago, just less than a few months, he had believed… had flattered himself into believing that he had won this vital creature. That she had been his own.
Now he was wiser. He knew that the joy which emanated from her had nothing to do with him. It was born of a mere scrap of paper he delivered two days ago. A letter from her brother, recounting his safe arrival at Calais. Even as he had brushed aside her gratitude for his loan of the Day Dream for her brother's journey, the sight of her regard for her brother and the sheer depth of her affections had awakened with a vengeance all the reasons why he fell in love with her. Every moment in her company mocked him relentlessly with the vision of what could have been.
Ever since she had news of her brother's safe arrival, there was a spring in her step, a lightness of being. Last night, as he crossed her suite of rooms on the way to his own, her buoyant voice had filtered through a door ajar. For a space, he had been unreasonably jealous of his brother-in-law, Armand St. Just- the only man who possessed the ability to call forth in his distant goddess of a sister, a living, glowing, glorious woman. Standing on the stairs, he fought with desperation against the longing to throw away his pride, his honour, the past… to charge through that door and …seize her to his heart. Pride had won. An empty victory. It was well nigh unbearable tonight to be so near, yet so far from her.
Almost impatiently he scanned the theatre. Once again, his gaze rested on the box opposite theirs. The man in the box across still had his glass trained on Marguerite. Blakeney recognized what his instincts had subconsciously registered- the fellow's unvarying but unobtrusive appraisal of their box. And he trusted their finely honed sensibility to danger. An invaluable discernment that saved more than his skin many times.
Sir Percy leaned forward to ostensibly acknowledge a peer who had been angling for his attention from a box situated conveniently near Grenville's. But beneath hooded eyes, he chanced a keener glance at the stranger. Sharp featured, small and thin, almost insignificant in physical presence. Blakeney was not deceived. The very stillness of the man's posture warned him that here was a man who could be a force to reckon with.
The swift currents of his thought quickly pieced together various pieces of the puzzle lodged in different parts of his mind. Of course! Percy berated himself for his late recognition- the man was undoubtedly the accredited agent of the French Government. The name escaped him for the moment. But that explained his presence in Grenville's box. Diplomatic relations and all that blather. But nevertheless, beneath that veneer… a man whose avowed mission was to ferret out the Scarlet Pimpernel… be he in heaven or in hell.
Taking a pinch of snuff from his enamelled box, Blakeney paused. Quite a poetic turn of phrase, that one – Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? The elusive pimpernel. No... that demmed elusive pimpernel. Much better… His lips quirked at the thought of the muse's timing in the face of a threat…Blakeny stiffened… a threat, who was taking a decidedly unwanted interest in his wife.
His wife. Marguerite. Now blissfully immersed in the passion of the music. What would be her role in the drama that would unfold? Clearly she was being considered for a part by her compatriot. That much was evident. Percy had seen men look at his wife with desire, with lust, with adoration, with reverence… but never with this kind of intense regard that suggested calculated intent, a regard not born of amorous motives. His eyes fixed listlessly on the stage, Percy's entire posture suggested lethargy and languor. Playing the part of a man forced to be part of his wife's intellectual pursuits when he would rather be anywhere else, Percy kept trying to gauge his adversary's perspective.
Definitely Lady Blakeney could hardly be placed more conveniently if one intended to employ her services to capture the Pimpernel. His wealth and name, not mention her winsome beauty and effortless charm, gave her an automatic entrée to elite circles- the Regent, political parties, coteries sympathetic to the émigré cause. And she could dissimulate- after all her glittering career as the actress par excellence of the French stage was not easily forgetten. Not to mention the crowning qualification- her loyalty to the Republic proclaimed in her denunciation of the St. Cyrs. Yes, she was a priceless pawn.
The question was- would she allow herself to be played? He knew from painful experience that Marguerite was her own mistress and that she obeyed no earthly will before her own. Her unflinching confession of her part in the St. Cyr executions the day after their marriage, had proved that. During the bitter weeks which followed, he was left with the broken hollow of his dreams. She had had no qualms on leaving him for her brother's home.
Blakeney guessed that the French agent would probably try to work his estrangement from his wife to his advantage. He cynically mused that previously neither her engagement nor her marriage to him had hindered her 'contribution' to the Revolutionary cause. But he wondered if the chap had taken into account Marguerite's fascination with the persona of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
It was a situation whose painful irony washed over him every time he heard her waxing lyrical about English society's lion of the moment. Marguerite was enamoured of every scrap of his so called 'exploits'. The glow in her eyes when the Pimpernel was mentioned, her passionate advocacy of his 'virtues', the pimpernel shaped rubies which caressed her white throat and arms … all told their own story. And no, he was not immune to the tide of emotions that washed over him, when he saw her decked in his colours. Indeed, he could not help but embrace a sharp and irrational joy at her ardent response to his work of mercy. And then the bitter taste of knowing that the Pimpernel was born in the discovery that his goddess had feet of clay. It would be so easy to forget that Percy and the Pimpernel were two men for her. Breaking that train of thought, he mused that the only question of import for the present was whether a romantic phantom in his wife's imagination would win against the persuasions of the accredited agent of the Republic.
His eyes never wavered from the stage and his demeanour of apathy grew more pronounced. His thoughts however rushed with the rapidity of a flood. Blakeney was convinced that Frenchman would not target Marguerite without gauging her measure. Without having identified a trigger that would make her spring to action- willingly for his cause. She had wealth, position, political favour and influence. The bait… the bait was the only question.
Through the mist of half formed thoughts and incoherent hunches, Percy knew that he could no longer evade the writing on the wall. Armand St. Just. The attachment between brother and sister was no secret. But his affiliation to the League was definitely one. St. Just's purpose in Paris was to keep a tryst with Comte de Tournay who was a suspect of the Committee of Safety in order to inform him about his family's safe arrival in England and the League's plans to rescue him. St. Just, it must be him. It could only be him… and if it was him, then…
His brother in law was in imminent danger if the Frenchman had grasped that St. Just was part of the League. If St. Just was the lever, he had no doubts as to how Marguerite would bend. Percy straightened in an uncharacteristic jerk. Marguerite looked around at her husband, a slight frown between her brows, as his movement broke through her reverie.
Making a courtly courtesy, he raised her hand to his lips, 'La, my dear, I suspect your countless admirers are ready to make short work of me. In fear for my health, I am afraid I must yield to their claim on your presence.'
His wife hardly listened to what he was saying. Her attention had turned back to the compelling music. No one watching Blakeney leave his box after performing the requisite amount of husbandly attendance on his wife would have suspected that his mind dwelt on more than comparing the cut of his coat with that of his friends among Marguerite's long line of admirers. But the astute brain of the adventurer was already trying to adjust to and work around this probable line of action that his adversary could follow. He had let Foulkes and Tony know at Dover that he would be at Grenville's ball. He needed to know if there had been any leak regarding St. Just's involvement.
Percy turned back to look at the box he vacated a little while ago. Sure enough, the little Frenchman in black had taken his place beside Marguerite. Blakeney's eyes momentarily glittered a brilliant blue, before the heavy lids shuttered their expression. It would take two to play this game.