The Green Eyed Monster

Part Four

The next day, Chauvelin had just been leaving – Marguerite seeing him to the door and all – when who should drive up but Suzanne de Tournay.

The events that followed were anything but pleasant.

Suzanne primly got out of the coach to be met straight on with Chauvelin; nearly collided with him, in point of fact, and the both were so shocked that they merely stood there for some time.

"Citoyenne de Tournay."

"Monsieur Chauvelin."

"Um, he was just leaving," Marguerite broke in, brushing past her lover and taking Suzanne's arm. "Weren't you, Citizen?"

He broke glares with Suzanne. "Yes," he replied, giving Marguerite a last, longing look. "Good day, Lady Blakeney," and with that he was off to his own waiting coach – to London.

Marguerite and Suzanne walked in quite thoroughly silent until they were in her sitting room alone together, door shut, when Suzanne simply had to snidely remark, "Did I interrupt your coitus, Marguerite?"

Lady Blakeney turned on her friend like hell fire. "Suzanne, don't you dare think to be pre-"

"I'm sorry," she quickly conceded, hating to have her dearest friend's anger in her direction. "That's…not why I came."

"I must say your visit surprises me. Were there more questions you had to ask?"

"No," Suzanne replied, taking out a letter. "I thought to bring you this." She handed the paper to Marguerite, who quickly and cautiously scanned its contents. "It's from Andrew," she added, a small smile on her pretty face at the thought of her love. "Percy's hurt his ankle, he'll be back within the week. I, um, thought you might want to have any gentlemen callers kept clear…."

"Hurt his ankle?" she questioned, holding the letter out from her. "Pray, how does one hurt one's ankle fishing!" She thrust the letter back at Suzanne, despairing again. "He's hiding something from me, something awful…."

"Much like you with him?"

Marguerite wheeled, but Suzanne wasn't being snide. The hurt, patient look in her eyes gave clear notice of her sincerity, and Marguerite inwardly collapsed a little. "I…I didn't mean for it to happen, Suzanne," she insisted softly. "I didn't mean for so many things to happen."

Suzanne took her friend's hand, shook her head. "We never do, these things that happen to us."

…

Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, had never been so glad to see home in all his life, he considered, walking gingerly on his hurt foot and ignoring the pain. That careless little slip had cost him dearly, and it was with great reluctance that he agreed to return home until he was well. And of course fate would have it that the sea voyage would be absolutely awful. "La Manche," as those Frenchies called it, wasn't pretty this time of year. But what was to be done?

And Marguerite had stood waiting for him at the door, putting on a great show of smiling and having people help him to his study – to be left alone to do whatever it was he did in there. They'd spoken barely two words to each other, quick – and hard as he tried he could not extend a more meaningful conversation with her, which, in retrospect, was just as well.

But did she have to be so damn good an actress? Did she have to pretend at affection so well? Or was that all it had ever been, pretend? And so, he shut himself in his study and spread his map before him and began to think, and with any luck, forget.

Armand had proven a useful ally in Paris, but he was getting worried. He was being left thoroughly alone. Much too alone. He was being left so alone that someone must have ordered it so. But there was no possibility that Chauvelin could have known, and for the moment, he was safe. And saving lives along with that.

Should anything happen to the boy, he could never look his wife in the face again – not that he could now, anyway.

And then he'd tried to speak with her at dinner, and she'd asked how his trip had gone.

"But how did you hurt your ankle?"

He paused in-between bites of dinner and with great effort covered it up. He'd sincerely hoped she wouldn't have been curious enough to ask, but of course she was. She always was.

"I slipped, my dear," he replied in his lazy drawl, quickly making himself look as indolent as possible while remaining polite at the dinner table. "Didn't I tell you that?"

"Oh, yes, you did," she replied, eyeing him like a hawk, and he felt distinctly unsettled by it. She couldn't possibly be indulging in subterfuge behind his back…could she? "But you failed to mention how."

"Ah," he corrected. "So I did. Well, you know how it is, water everywhere, slippery rocks and such, me being fool enough not to look where I put my feet. Yes, simply made an ass of myself." Well, that sounded truthful, at any rate; in reality, he'd took a nasty tumble down some stairs. He well remembered the massive headache to follow and the ringing in his ears – not to mention the ankle. "Quite ghastly, I assure you."

"Hm," she replied, still sort of eyeing him before returning to her meal. "I sincerely hope you managed to catch something before your unfortunate accident."

"A little something, madame, yes. But Tony and Andrew had far better luck than I."

"Percy," she finally protested, "what really happened?"

He blinked. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I know there's something you're not telling me. Cards on the table, sir, you know my secret, so let's hear yours. Please," she begged, blue eyes watering a little. "Let us just be honest and mend the wrong."

With a supreme amount of will power, he stood up. "There is no wrong to mend. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do before I retire." And off he walked, and Marguerite desperately watched him go before letting her heavy head fall into her hands. Another round, and she had lost.

What on earth was she to do?

…

The rest of that torturous week remained the same, until Marguerite was sure she'd go mad with the impatience of it all. Couldn't he at least confront her about her infidelity? That would make things so much easier on her burdened conscience. But maybe she deserved the torture, she deserved so much worse for all she'd done.

Things stayed the same – that is, until Chauvelin brazenly arrived one early September day to see Marguerite.

The ambassador had been lead into the Blakeney's parlor to wait – Lady Blakeney had not been given any warning that he was coming – when in walked Sir Percy Blakeney, hunting for a lost book.

"Oh, goodness!" he exclaimed in all his wonderful surprise and playfulness. "'Tis Citizen Chauvelin, what a surprise!" And while inwardly he would have loved to ram the book (if and when he found it) down the gutter snake's throat, he was making a marvelous play at geniality. "I didn't know Margot was expecting company."

"I, uh, was unable to inform Lady Blakeney of my emergency visit before hand," Chauvelin replied, feeling somewhat uncomfortable in the man's presence when he had to know what was going on with his wife behind his back. Well, not so behind, anymore, but if not, why wasn't he saying anything? Or even acting upset? Well, he had told Marguerite several times that Percy had never really cared for her…

"Emergency?" Blakeney cried, astonished. "Oh, dear, what's happened?"

"Er, nothing of any prominent importance, Lord Blakeney."

"Oh, no, do tell – I do so love gossip." Chauvelin was shifting on his feet when Percy deliciously added, "It wouldn't have anything to do with that ghastly Scarlet Pimpernel fellow, would it?"

Chauvelin nearly fell over. "Wh-what?"

"Yes, he's such a damned nuisance, isn't he? Of course, all England's just wild about his latest adventure. Heard his gang rescued a count…"

"Rumors like that have been circulating, yes," Chauvelin snarled, grinding his teeth. Trying to get back on topic, he said, "If Lady Blakeney is unavailable, I could come at a different time, or-"

"Pish posh, man, stay for lunch!"

"I'm sure the citizen has more important matters to attend to, my dear," Marguerite sighed, sweeping into the room and rescuing her lover from further vexations. "And most people consider it common courtesy to be given warning before having visitors barge into their homes," Marguerite scolded, glaring crossly at him – but Chauvelin practically glowed with relief.

The agent took her hand and kissed it by way of an apology. "Forgive my poor manners, Lady Blakeney, the situation seemed rather urgent."

"Ah, there's my book!" Blakeney cried, snatching it off a table. Anxious to be gone, he added, "I'll leave you two to your discussions." But once out of the room left firm orders that the doors were to remain open and that they be mildly monitored.

"Are you stark raving mad!" Marguerite cried when she was sure her husband was out of earshot. "Come here? With Percy home? Do you wish to ruin him?"

"It's on the list," he dryly replied, and she shot him a terrible scowl.

"Let me rephrase – do you wish to ruin me?"

"No, ma belle, how can you ask such a question?"

"Why are you here?" she finally demanded. "You know the dangers."

"I had to see you, Marguerite," he insisted, taking one of her hands. "No doubt you've heard about that embarrassing business over le Comte de Bordeaux! He's vanished into thin air, and nobody knows where to find him."

"And what of it?" Marguerite demanded, prudently taking her hand back. "Why should I be notified?"

"It seems," Chauvelin continued, slightly annoyed to have his prize taken from him, "that there was a note left behind, with a small, red flower…"

"A Scarlet Pimpernel!" Marguerite cried, breathlessly, with great excitement, eliciting a scowl from her lover. "Really? And you still haven't caught him?"

"No, but I will catch him, you can make certain of that."

"Oh, of course, my dear."

He was still frowning when he continued on. "I came because I thought I might be able to ask…for your help."

Marguerite stood frozen for several moments. "What?" she finally stuttered. "Help you? Find the Scarlet Pimpernel?" And then she burst out laughing, which hurt Chauvelin's ego severally. "Oh, Chauvelin, what a good joke."

"I'm being deadly serious."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure you are."

He caught her arm, forcing her to look him in his pale, yellow eyes, and she froze, suddenly worried. "I meant it, Marguerite. As a friend, as a partner, as a fellow patriot….I'm asking for you to help me."

She blinked several times, quite worried. "But I…I wouldn't know where to start…Nobody knows who he is…No, please, Chauvelin, don't take much stock in my cleverness, all my sensibilities have been drained out of me."

"He has to be an aristocrat, I know that much. And you're the wife of the richest man in England. No one says no to Marguerite Blakeney, and all you have to do is-"

"You're not listening to me," she interrupted desperately. "I absolutely can't. No, not at all. It would go against every fiber I have left in my conscience, and I would be afraid every second of the time – because if I was caught doing something like that…especially because I'm the wife of the richest man in England…." She broke away now, trembling at the very idea of it. "Never mind ruining us by adultery, that would be high treason. And the penalty for that," she wheeled on him, "I'm sure you're well aware of."

"And what's the worse treason!" he cried. "That you turn your back on a country you hardly even know…or to turn your back on the people of France?"

"Don't put it in those terms, Chauvelin, I beg of you, I won't-"

"To think, the absolute star of Paris, a common traitor and a-"

"Stop!" The desperate insistence in her voice did give him pause, and she carefully took one of his hands. "I cannot do this thing you ask of me. It is not just the politics of it, it is because I do not want to, please try to understand that. If you respect me then you will respect this decision, for it is mine," she begged. "I cannot, I will not do this thing you ask of me. It is absolutely and positively impossible. Do you understand that, Chauvelin?" He seemed unhappy with the result, and unimpressed. "Please?" she insisted, batting her big blue eyes. He relented.

Taking her hand and kissing it, he went to get his hat from the servant who had taken it. "I'll try again on a day you're more…compassionately inclined to your nation's needs. Auvoir, ma cherie."

"Goodbye," she replied in her firm English, and watched him go. And once she knew he was gone, she fell into a chair, trembling from head to foot at the very idea of his outrageous proposal. Such words, said in her husband's house! Talk like that could kill in France, and she wasn't so certain it couldn't here. How could he possibly think she would even consider such an idea? Didn't he know her well enough? Mon Dieu…

And Percy! He'd been careless and bold enough to come with Percy at home! She wasn't going to forgive him for that stroke of his damned impertinence, and she would make certain to ram that idea home the next time they spoke.

Why was she so dependent on the agent? Why was she so deathly afraid of being alone? Who could tell? It was an inexplicable mystery – and she did so wish to have the answer.

…

Blakeney was astute enough to pick up on his wife's subdued manner at dinner, more so than it usually was, and it incited him to worry just a bit. Had they broken off the relationship, was that what was upsetting her? Oh, God, let it be….

"And what did the ambassador come to talk to you of this afternoon, my dear?" Lord Blakeney asked congenially and curiously over the soup course. "Anything interesting?"

"He was just giving me news," she replied drearily. "From back home."

"What of?"

She fell back on the current gossip. "It seems the Count of Bordeaux did disappear last week. Some people think he's dead…"

"And what did the citizen think?"

"He doesn't believe it."

"And what do you think?"

Marguerite looked up, surprised. When was the last time he'd asked her a question like that? But there he sat, just the same, not looking at her the way he used to, just eating dinner. Maybe he wasn't really interested in what she thought, but if she could make him interested…

"I don't believe it either."

"Hmm…" he replied, resettling his napkin in his lap. "An interesting business, all that, I'm sure."

"I suppose…"

"But never mind, dear," he sighed as the next plates were brought in. "I'm sure Mon-sewer les Comte is perfectly fine. Or…isn't that what you're worried about."

Marguerite's jaw fell slightly agape. Was he accusing her of something? Damn him, how could he just sit there eating while she begged him to actually look at her and speak his mind!

"I do want the count to live," she firmly interceded.

"I'm sure of that."

"Percy, I-"

"You'd best eat, darling. It'll get cold, and that would spoil the whole affair, now wouldn't it?"

To Be Continued…