Author's note: This continues the story arc established in the Letters from France series - see below - and readers are earnestly invited to start there. Everything I write is based on the books only but this tale veers from the canon timeline some time before The Triumph and may, therefore, be regarded as AU. Comment is, as ever, warmly invited and it is not too late to influence the story, for who should know its faults better than the author?
...
It was without any doubt the most glittering event of the Season. When the richest man in England holds a ball to celebrate the birthday of the wittiest, most beautiful, most admired woman in England, in the presence of royalty and in the family mansion at Richmond, much is expected and much was vouchsafed, though not, perhaps in the way that anyone invited to Blakeney Manor that fine evening in April had foreseen.
The capricious English weather had seen fit to grace the event with unseasonable warmth and a gentle breeze as dozen upon dozen of fine coaches made their way up the long drive to the Manor. The house was ablaze with light and all along the carriageway, great torches lit the sky and on the lawns before the house fire eaters and jugglers with flaming brands added a touch of barbarous splendour to the night. Even those who attended more to be seen than to see, anticipated an enjoyable and unusual evening.
Just how unusual was apparent as the guests arrived to greet their hosts. Lady Blakeney was a vision of magnificent loveliness in rose-coloured silk, diamonds and rubies at her throat and in her unpowdered hair. She was also alone, and supported only by Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and his lady, both known to be friends of the family. When questioned, she sharpened her wits at her husband's expense, denouncing him as the sorriest of husbands and laughing gaily at the man who arrives late to his own ball. So unprecedented a breach of good manners might have induced the more punctilious of the guests to withdraw, had not The Prince of Wales arrived and, laughing uproariously, announced that if Blakeney were fool enough to miss such an night, he had no intention of doing likewise and immediately claimed his hostess's hand for the gavotte.
Throughout the evening and on through supper, the lady was the same, gracious, amusing and oddly convinced her husband would arrived sooner rather than later, promising to demand a full accounting for such ungentlemanly behaviour. The ballroom, filled with the light and heat of a thousand candles and a half a hundred dancers became stuffy and the great windows leading onto the lawns to the river were opened slightly. The breath of fresh air set the candles to fluttering and the silk and jewels of the guests glittered in the changing lights.
Although the ball was lavish in its preparations - the music really excellent and the wine beyond praise - gradually as the hour grew later, the more sensitive of the guests were conscious of a strange, uncomfortable tension, an oppressive sensation like impending thunder. This grew when the word went round of a strange remark by Lady Blakeney overheard by a passing guest and quickly shared around. Asked by Lady Grosvenor whether she had yet abandoned hope of Sir Percy's arrival, she had replied with a peculiar emphasis, "Oh no, if he is alive, he will come, he promised." While some were inclined to think this merely an example of the tendency of all Frenchies to exaggerate, as the evening progressed and Lady Blakeney grew paler and paler, some were inclined to wonder what could possibly lie behind her words.
Midnight approached and more than one guest noticed that a group was forming around their hostess. Sir Andrew and Lady Suzanne were to be expected, as was Lord Anthony Dewhurst and his lady, and even Lady Blakeney's brother, but why was it that, one by one, a group of more than a score of worried-looking young men had gathered about her, conversing in lowered voices and checking their pocket watches.
Seeming to sense the unwelcome attention was being attracted, she turned to Lord Hastings and, extending a laughing hand to him, begged him to join her in the next dance. He bowed over her hand and was about to reply when without warning, one of the great windows over-looking the river swung open with a crash.
Everyone turned to look, blinking as candles were blown out and smoke eddied and swirled about them. In the window stood a group of three men. Two were obviously sailors from their dress, and behind them a long boat could be seen, more men draped over their oars in utter exhaustion. The third man, however, was unmistakeable.
Sir Percy Blakeney, Bt. head bent, supported on either side, obviously drunk and obviously only able to stand with the help of common seaman. Dead silence fell at so blatant a discourtesy, not only to his wife but to the guests in his home. He was dressed in the great many-caped driving coat he affected and beneath it, his boots were muddied and misshapen. In a hard-drinking age, this man at least had never before been seen in this condition.
Then he raised his head. A gasp of horror ran round the room. His face was ghastly, with a deathly pallor relieved only by the great, dark rings about his eyes and a livid weal that slashed across his face from forehead to mouth, crossing one closed eye, the crimson stain blatant and shocking. Whether this was accident or attack, it was not of his doing.
Slowly and with infinite care he cast himself loose from his supporters and drew himself up to his full, great height. He swayed, but when one of the men reached for him, he was waved aside. In the silence a clock was heard chiming midnight, as, with a visible and visibly painful effort, Sir Percy Blakeney began the walk towards his wife.
No one dare move, they stood and watched his progress across the ballroom. One arm hung loose by his side and the mere act of walking was manifestly draining what little strength he had. He grew if possible still paler as he walked, his feet unsteady but his gaze unwavering.
Lady Blakeney had not moved. She stood waiting for him, her face deeply shocked yet oddly exultant and when he reached her, she held out both her hands and they were steady.
"You did not doubt that I would come?" His voice was hoarse but not the least surprise to those listening was his perfect, accent less French.
"I do not doubt me that the sun will rise. Should I doubt your promises, my husband?" He smiled then, his expression tender, and she smiled back.
"Happy birthday, my heart." He bowed to kiss her hand, one knee gave way and slowly, like a great tree falling, he slid to the ground at her feet.
Instantly she was beside him, cradling his head in her lap, kissing his face and calling his name. His hair had been cut short close to his head and had sprung into a mass of curls which made him look impossibly young. Released from their thrall, the great throng crowded round them, blocking off the air and impeding those of their friends and servants who tried to aid them.
It was only when a great voice shouted for silence and "make way there" that they drew back as a man hurried in from the boat, his dress proclaimed him to be the sea-captain he was.
"Get him off his back, milady. You mun' get him off his back. He's been flogged." They lifted him then and a cry of horror went up, the back of his coat and indeed the front of Lady Blakeney's gown was stained with his blood. His coat fell open as his friends carried him away and more than one refugee from France recognised the uniform belt and breeches of the French Republican Guard.
She left with him, and their friends crowded round Captain Briggs demanding answers. There seemed little point in attempting secrecy any longer.
"He turned up at the rendezvous like that. Twenty years in the navy and I never saw the like; I reckon they left him for dead." The Captain's Yorkshire accent thickened as he found himself surrounded by the nobility and gentry of Britain. "He brought the bairns with him," he gestured at the doorway where two of his men held children, a boy and a girl wrapped in blankets, blinking sleepily in the light. There was a cry behind him as a pale woman and her husband ran forward to claim the children, the happy cries of "Maman! Papa!" proclaiming their kinship.
"Offered ten guineas for every man on the ship and fifty to every man jack in the boat if we got here afore eight bells. Been speaking naught but French these last two days, delirious like." He touched his forehead. "I'd best look to my men. My compliments to Sir Percy and we're moored in the Pool of London if we're needed." He turned to go and nodded to where the master of the house and his lady had gone. "I reckon he'll be all right now. He's got what he needs."
He left then and behind him the great secret of one man's bravery and cunning, and the greater secret of the love between a man and a woman, began to unfurl across the world, glorious and unforgettable.