Her heart beat rapidly beneath her breast. The entire journey from Richmond to London to Dover and then to Paris took an agonizing four days and she fretted the entire way. She may have been able to make it sooner, but she had to prepare for her worst fears. When the ship docked in Calais, she saw the newspapers. Her beloved was imprisoned. Oh, the newspapers didn't provide a name or even a clear description, but the news that the Scarlet Pimpernel was captured made headlines.
She refused to rest, despite Sir Andrew's plea.
They'd gone their separate ways once they left Calais. She daren't ask where he ventured and could only hope she wasn't leading another good man to his death.
Paris was even more chaotic than she last remembered. The cheers from the Place de Grève made her heart pound and the sharp thump of the guillotine blade made her breath catch. Percy could have been put beneath the blade at any point in the last few days and she wouldn't know until she saw Chauvelin.
The carriage rolled to a stop and Marguerite took a deep breath, smoothing her skirts with nervous energy. This was it. She was about to march into the headquarters of the Committee of Public Safety and demand to see their most bitter enemy. She wouldn't take no for an answer. The carriage door swung open and she lifted her chin, banishing every trace of anxiety from her face. She accepted the hand down and swept into the building without a moment's hesitation. From this point forth, she was putting on a show.
The secretary outside Chauvelin's office scrambled to his feet at her approach, but she didn't slow, stating loftily, "There is no need to announce me."
Still, the man hurried to the door, opening it moments before she reached it and she passed through the doorway unhindered. Chauvelin looked up from his papers, a fleeting look of surprise and gratification flashing across his face before he rose to his feet and greeted her, "Lady Blakeney, what a delightful surprise."
She came to a stop before his desk, refusing to return his greeting with any form of politeness. "I seriously doubt that."
He faltered briefly at her frosty tone and expression before admitting, "I had heard — unofficially, of course — that you were in Paris." Chauvelin made a motion to a nearby chair, a smugness present beneath his courteous words, "Please; won't you have a seat?"
Marguerite made no move to take the offered chair, leveling her onetime friend a flat look. She was pleased to see a discomforted expression cross his face, but she had more pressing matters on her mind so she swiftly made her point, lifting her chin and declaring, "I shall make this brief. This is a petition of clemency signed by the Prince of Wales."
She lifted the parchment in her hand, watching the faint smirk fade from Chauvelin's face as his gaze shifted to it and he automatically reached to take it from her. Pulling out of his reach, she allowed a flash of her own satisfaction to turn up the corners of her mouth. "Now, unless you wish me to take it to Robespierre himself, I demand that you let me see my husband at once."
Chauvelin shifted uncomfortably, but he still gave her a patronizing smile as he chided, "There's no need for all that. You had but to ask."
The cant of her eyebrows and lift of her chin showed the doubts she felt about his words. Had she come without the petition, she knew her old friend would turn her away with pretty little lies. His eyes dropped to the parchment she still held in her hands and his fingers drummed briefly on his desk. "When would you like to see him, my dear?"
"Now."
He blinked at the firmness of her answer and he lowered himself back into his chair. "Now?"
She nodded. "Yes. I want to see him now, alone, for half an hour."
"Absolutely not," he snorted. "I don't trust you, Lady Blakeney. You have turned your back on France and she does not look kindly on traitors. Your visit will be supervised and no longer than ten minutes."
The heat of anger flushed her cheeks and her fingers twisted the petition. "Alone, Citoyen Chauvelin. I'll not have you leering at us."
"I have no desire to leer at you," Chauvelin sneered. "Your husband has been a thorn in the Republic's side for far too long to allow him a chance to slip through our grasp once again. Madame la Guillotine has desired your husband's head for some time and it would be a shame to rob her of it."
Her breath caught and her hands trembled, but she recognized that he had some ulterior motive in taunting her with her husband's death. The Scarlet Pimpernel's head under the knife of the guillotine was a prize, but there was a greater prize to be had and the Republic was willing use her to barter for it. "What do you want?"
Chauvelin didn't bother to disguise his triumph. "The Scarlet Pimpernel and his band of miscreants have taken the Dauphin. I will release your husband, and your brother, if he tells me the boy's whereabouts. If not, his appointment with Madame la Guillotine stands."
Marguerite's heart skipped a beat and tears brimmed in her eyes. Oh, her honorable husband would never betray one he's rescued. "He would never tell."
"Oh, I believe he will, my dear," he told her. "You can convince him, I have no doubt about that. I will give you two minutes. That is all."
"Two minutes!" she exclaimed. "That's hardly any time at all!"
"Nevertheless, that is all I will allow." His tone was harsh and she choked down her protests. He had the upper hand this time and he knew it.
"Alone, Citoyen Chauvelin," she repeated, trying to sound firm.
His lip curled, but he nodded, agreeing, "Alone."
*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*
She could smell the stench of human waste and suffering well before she passed through the doors of the prison. Chauvelin didn't seem to notice the squalor and filth, swiftly leading her through the gates and narrow corridors to the guardroom. The prison warden was an old, gray-headed fellow, rumpled and unwashed, who stumbled to his feet when they arrived in his office. He was brushing away crumbs and wiping greasy fingers against his soiled jacket. His surprise was evident when he looked from Chauvelin to Marguerite and then back to Chauvelin. "I was not expecting you today, Citoyen."
"No," Chauvelin agreed. "I trust there have been no problems."
"None, Citoyen," the warden reported, attention shifting to Marguerite.
The lady stood behind Chauvelin, holding her scented handkerchief to her nose with a pale hand. Her eyes watered from the smell and her heart grieved. Her poor husband was in this miserable place somewhere and it was all her fault.
Chauvelin cleared his throat and warden jerked to attention, stammering an apology that Chauvelin ignored. "Lady Blakeney is here to see her husband."
The warden gawped at them and didn't appear to understand. Chauvelin grew impatient, fingers snapping at his cuffs. "Sir Percy Blakeney, fool. He is still held within these walls; is he not?"
The warden jumped, fumbling with his keyring, stumbling to reassure the irate man, "Of course, Citoyen! It's only — you said no visitors."
"Well, I am allowing one visitor now," Chauvelin said shortly, his patience fraying.
"Right," the warden hastily agreed, eyes drifting to Marguerite. "This way."
They followed him out of the cramped office and into the prison proper. The misery seemed to increase with every step and Marguerite's heart beat with dread. Chauvelin kept close, his hand beneath her elbow to usher her along, and she refused to allow herself to falter in the face of her emotions.
The warden led them through a close corridor and then down a narrow set of stairs to the lower level of the building before he stopped before a solid wooden door to sort through his many keys, mumbling under his breath. Marguerite could hear weeping behind some of the doors and other doors shook with the pounding of angry fists when they passed. The stench was even worse down here and Marguerite waited fearfully, wondering in just what sort of condition she would find her husband.
The door finally opened on badly oiled hinges and she hesitated only briefly before she hurried forward, following closely behind Chauvelin as he entered the cell with all the conceited triumph of a man come to gloat before his fallen foe.
"You have a visitor," he announced with false magnanimity.
Chauvelin shifted and she saw him.
The cell was cramped, barely six feet wide and hardly longer, and dim. Percy stood with his back to them, one arm braced against the wall as if he hadn't a care in the world. Tears again brimmed in her eyes and her breath caught. Someone had taken his coat and waistcoat and the fine white of his lawn shirt was streaked with dirt and who knew what other foul substances. It was likely ruined beyond repair. But he was a live and whole. Her heart sang. He turned slowly, his bland expression falling into heart-aching surprise when he saw her.
"Marguerite?" He sounded like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
She wanted to run to him, to wrap him in her arms and hold him tight to her breast and shower him with kisses and soothe away the hurt, but Chauvelin turned to look back at her, his brow lifting and a smirk pulling at his thin lips as if to say he was right. The conceit of the man! And how foolish she had been! To think that at one time she'd believed him a friend!
Marguerite schooled her expression, twisting her handkerchief once between her fingers and forcing herself to look away from Percy to meet Chauvelin's eyes. "Alone, as you promised."
"Two minutes," he reiterated, more for Percy's benefit than her own, then he swept his overcoat around him and turned to fully face her. There was a meanness in his face that she'd never seen before, and his words were short and cold. "Remember my conditions."
She barely acknowledged him, her eyes meeting and holding Percy's. Chauvelin stalked past her out of the cramped cell. The door slammed and locked behind him and she took a deep, quivering breath. She was here now, though for what purpose she couldn't immediately recall. Her only thoughts during her flight from London had been to reach her husband before it was too late.
Percy took a cautious step toward her, still looking mystified. Guilt anchored her feet to the floor. She clutched her handkerchief with nerveless fingers, pressing her lips together to keep them from quivering. Her tongue felt clumsy and she couldn't find the words to beg for the forgiveness for which she so desperately wished. Her betrayal couldn't possibly be excused or forgiven. What affection he once held for her had to have vanished. His distance after their marriage proved it, but oh! how she longed for his love.
He halted part way to her, slowly lifting a hand. There was a slight tremble in his fingers, but it was all the invitation she needed. She rushed into his arms, breathlessly exclaiming, "Oh, my darling!"
Arms closed around her and pulled her nearer. He clutched at her, fingers digging into her shoulders and drawing her against his solid frame. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck and she threaded her fingers through his hair. She was going to cry, tears were already slipping down her cheeks and a sob was choking her breath. Percy's shoulders trembled a moment and then he pulled back to gaze upon her damp face, rasping, "How I prayed you would come. My darling, can you ever forgive me for doubting you?"
Her heart leapt within her breast and she cupped his face between her hands, her own plea for forgiveness on her lips when she suddenly realized his pallor and the heat of his skin beneath her fingers. She gasped, exclaiming, "You're feverish! Are you ill?"
His eyes fluttered for a moment before a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Zounds, m'dear, do not worry so. I am well."
Despite his words, and to her great alarm, he swayed. She caught him by the arms, steadying him on his feet, her alarm growing when he flinched beneath her touch and drew a sharp breath.
"You are not well," she told him, guiding him to sit on the rickety cot along the wall. He almost collapsed onto the cot and her eyes frantically looked for the cause of his illness. Breath catching, her hands fluttered over an old bloodstain on his left bicep. "You're injured!"
He caught her hands, stilling them and drawing her fingers to his lips. He bestowed light kisses on them and squeezed them gently. "We've not much time, my love. Chauvelin brought you here for a reason," he reminded her.
She worried her lip, eyes drawn to the concealed injury and was horrified to realize that it still bled. Another gentle squeeze on her fingers roused her. "He says he will release you if you tell him the Dauphin's whereabouts," her words were automatic and the remembrance drew her eyes back to her husband's, "if not — oh, Percy —"
"I cannot," he interrupted her, looking pained. Tears glimmered in his eyes in the face of her distress. "You must not ask me."
"There must be some way," she cried, though she could not think of one. The terror that she would see him beneath the guillotine or dying of fever in this horrid cell was overwhelming and stole what cleverness she was said to possess. She finally found the man she'd seen glimpses of before they married and she was going to lose him.
He dropped her hands, reaching up to wipe away the tracks of her tears and tracing the line of her chin. His gaze traced her features, his brow furrowing with thought.
"There may be," he said slowly.
"What will you do?" she asked, tears in her voice.
His blue eyes glinted with a hint of mischievous she'd only caught glimpses of before. "I will tell him where the Dauphin is, m'dear."
Whatever she'd been expecting, her brave husband giving up and handing over one of his rescues — and the young prince, at that — was not it. Marguerite blinked in surprise. Percy smiled at her surprise and took her hand, pressing it gently, saying, "You will write to Tony at Mantes to release the Dauphin to Baron de Batz. The Baron must get the Dauphin away from France as quickly as possible. The safest place for him is Austria — other than good old England, that is."
He slipped a ring onto her thumb then leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his forehead against her stomach. She could feel the heat of his fever through her clothing. She stroked her fingers through his sweat soaked hair. "You are so ill."
"I'll delay Chauvelin as long as I can," he mumbled against her stomach, "but I cannot promise more than a few hours."
She bent to press her lips against the top of his head, murmuring, "I'll be watched. Chauvelin won't let me go without someone following. How will I get a message to them, Percy?"
"You are the cleverest woman in Europe, m'dear," he told her.
The key turned in the heavy lock and the door swung open before more could be said. Marguerite clung to her husband suddenly aware that they would be parted, perhaps forever. Chauvelin coughed, announcing, "Time's up, Lady Blakeney. You have had more than enough time to make your farewells and receive any important communications."
Marguerite turned, pleading, "He is ill, Paul, and injured. Can't you see to it a physician is summoned?"
Chauvelin was unmoved by her tearful plea, hardly sparing Percy even an apathetic glance. "No less than he deserves, no doubt," he drawled, turning to call over his shoulder, "Fouquet, please escort Lady Blakeney out. I will speak to her in the guardroom before she is permitted to go."
She had always known Chauvelin had a brutal shade to his character, but she'd never imagined she'd be on the receiving end of it. He'd always treated her like a beloved friend and confidante. There was a point in the none too distant past that she thought he might have loved her.
But the Revolution had changed them both and she married an English baronet, forsaking those idealistic dreams she'd entertained in her salon. Here she stood, between two men she'd deeply misunderstood, her past and her future in human form, and suddenly felt deeply hurt. "How can you be so cold hearted?"
Percy squeezed her fingers, pulling them to his lips again and pressing a small kiss to the ring on her hand. "I will be well, my darling. Do not fret so."
She gazed down at him, pressing her hand against his rough cheek. Her lip quivered. Fouquet entered the cell, but before he could reach her, Marguerite wrenched her hand free, burst into tears, and rushed out. She barely heard Chauvelin say, "Lock the cell. I'll return to speak with him later."
Marguerite didn't go far, collapsing against the stone wall at the top of the stairs and sobbing into her scented handkerchief. Chauvelin found her soon enough, grasping her by the elbow and guiding her to the guardroom while the warden locked Percy's cell door. Once there, he let her drop heavily into an uncomfortable chair, sneering at her womanly theatrics. He ignored her weeping, demanding, "Did he tell you where the Dauphin is hidden?"
"No!" she snapped at him, dabbing away her tears, her breath catching on a sob. "He wouldn't tell me for fear you'd keep me imprisoned in this cursed place once I gave up the location."
"How noble of your husband," Chauvelin sneered.
"My place is by his side," she sobbed. "I should be with him! He's so ill."
Chauvelin made a face, plucking his snuffbox from his coat and tapping it. He took a pinch and then dabbed his nose, his mouth pulling up in a derisive smirk. "This is what has become of France's greatest actress. She's nothing more than a sniveling woman who hides behind her husband's coattails."
"He's my husband, Paul," she pled, reaching for her old friend.
Chauvelin ignored her and her hand remained suspended for a moment before she let it fall back to her lap. "He's a fool." He tucked the snuffbox back into his coat pocket. "So he's elected to face the guillotine."
She clutched her handkerchief to her bosom, her eyes widening with alarm. "Oh, no! He said he would tell you if you allow me to go."
"Is that so?" Chauvelin traced a finger over his lips as he considered her words. "Very well," Chauvelin nodded, smiling down at her tearstained face. "Of course, I cannot allow you to leave here unaccompanied. Paris is a dangerous place for you, Lady Blakeney. You will be under guard at the inn. For your safety, of course."