Percy leaned heavily over the maps and charts laid out over his study desk: of the Channel, of France, of England...all of them marked in secret escape routes and pathways he'd used in previous missions and some which still lay in wait for future use. He heaved a sigh, staring down at them, and in lifeless, mechanical movements reached back into his pocket and withdrew the scarlet-red ring. Holding it aloft, the sunlight played off its golden setting and scarlet-colored ruby stone like a mirror, outlining the curling flower which had been carved with perfect precision into its stone. Holding it tight, he stared at it, his face darkening as the thoughts rushed by in his mind. "Are you worth it?" he demanded quietly, voice as hard as the ring's metal. Straightening, he glared at the object as though it could hear him. "Are you?!" Percy certainly had his doubts. He'd always written off these doubts as childish, that the lives he saved in France were well worth the sacrifices he made. But recently...these developments with Marguerite...he was beginning to have his doubts. How could he have been so careless as to not consider the consequences of being married with what he did? How could he keep doing this to Marguerite... "You're not!" he suddenly roared in anger rarely portrayed by Percival Blakeney, and with a furious heave with strength that went unseen in his massive frame by the public, Percy hurled the ring across the room. Slamming directly into a small framed pictured, it shattered the glass and knocked the frame to the floor. Seething, Percy stomped across the room to pick it up, yet stopped in mid-crouch as he saw the portrait he had shattered. It was Marguerite.

"Oh Lord," Percy wailed and let himself fall to his knees amid the broken glass, his anger converting to sorrow as he gazed at the small painting. Reaching down he gently picked up the tiny canvas and held it before him, his other hand reaching up to stroke the thick auburn curls and crimson red lips of his wife. Not real...only paint. A timid knock on the heavy study door brought Percy whirling back to himself.

Fearing it was Marguerite, Percy picked himself up and quickly used the canvas portrait to shovel the peices of broken glass and wood under a nearby dresser where they wouldn't be seen. Slipping on his ring, he straightened, tossing the canvas underneath with the rest of it and smoothing back his features as he made for the door. "Yes, who is it?"

"It's me, Sir," came an equally timid voice. Expression lightening with surprise, Percy hurriedly unlocked the heavy wooden door and tossed it open with ease, his grin uncontained at the young face he saw there.

"Armand! What the devil are--egads, lad! Whatever happened to you?"

Looking down sheepishly at his torn and dusty attire, Armand shrugged and self-consciusly patted himself to make more presentable. "Someone back along the road tried to run me down with their carriage." Shrugging, the young Frenchman put on a brave face before the leader he adored and straightened. "I'm alright, sir, and they maagesd to at least not destroy these." From within his vest Armand St. Just drew a small leather packet and quickly turned it over to Percy's hands, his brown eyes eager. "Letters and directions from Paris. I made for here as soon as they were put in my hands."

Percy took the packet--and very heavy one--and gazed over its smooth front. Scrawled in red in were the letters "SP," and despite the grim foreboding that fell over the Englishman he managed a smile and grateful nod to Armand. "Good man. Good work." And slowly he turned back to his study, already opening the packet. "There's a fresh change of clothes in that closet there, if you'd prefer."

Blushing again, Armand nodded and made for the indicated spot. "Merci, Sir." Reaching for the garments laid aside that were approximately Armand's size--a clean white shirt, brown vest trimmed in gold lace, brown silk breeches and the usual tights and shoes of the fashion age--he slipped them on eagerly, tossing the older ones aside carefully. "Pardon e moi, Sir, but...if you don't mind...where is my sister?" He turned to look fully at Percy again, tying a black ribbon to hold back his brown mane of hair.

Percy kept his eyes trained intensely on the papers spread out before him, hiding the quiver in his voice. "Upstairs, I imagine, charming the birds out of the trees and right into her window."

Armand grinned, and, bowing with another vocal thanks, he left Percy to solitude and made for the stairs, bouncing up with youthful energy to what he knew was Marguerite's room. Supposed to be her husband's as well as hers, but Armand knew very little about the problems between them, a matter which Percy had hoped to keep. Armand sacrificed himself enough as it was in the League of the Pimpernel without having to worry about Percy's problems, of course Percy knew that if Armand ever knew the extent of their troubles--as he figured he eventually would--Armand would stop at nothing to do what he could to help. Demmed little boy...

Knocking gently on Marguerite's doorframe, Armand took special care in poking his head in, calling gently in that soft, timid voice of his: "Margot?"

Marguerite looked up from her lap, bouncing to her feet. "Armand!" she crowed joyfully, trotting over to him. "Armand, Armand, Armand! What are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me?" she hugged him joyfully, hardly able to contain her excitement; if anyone vied for her love for her husband, it was her brother, whom she loved equally well. Her smile wavered a little: what was he doing here, unannounced? She looked down, still smiling. And in Percy's clothes, too!

Armand's smile was just as wide and his hug twice as welcoming as he threw his arms around his sister, not stopping his joyful laugh that was enough to convey the mutual excitement at being with her again. A loving squeeze, and he stood back at arm's length to view her entirely, his hands still keeping a gentle hold on hers. "Margot," he chuckled again, calling her by the pet name they had so often used as children. He dropped back into speaking French, a language which he was more comfortable with. "You never cease to amaze me. How is it you look more beautiful each time I see you?" Another quick brotherly hug and Armand paused in the joyous tidings to follow her gaze down at himself, imagining her confusion. "Pardon the attire," he laughed good-naturedly, "but mine got a little soiled on the journey here." Which brought him back to her inquiries. Armand didn't like lying—to his sister, most of all—and so when the times were necessary he worked in as much as the truth as he could, or just avoided a straight answer altogether. "What?" he turned his head slightly in a playful pout. "Now a fellow must have a reason to come and see his sister?" Another laugh, in which he stopped to pick Marguerite up into his arms and twirl her around, setting her back down in a seat on the edge of her bed. Kneeling beside her, he placed his chin and folded hands on her knees, gazing up with those youthful brown eyes as though a puppy caught in the act of wrongdoing. "Oh, alright. I was in Paris, as you well know, and hearing that there was to be a major event that I would have rather had no part in I bought passage across the Channel for a visit. Surprise!" Emphasis on the eyes, his voice playfully toning down. "Is that alright?"

What Armand didn't tell her was that the "event" was the public execution of an entire aristocrat family by beheading, which was scheduled to happen tomorrow morning at dawn. This information which he had obtained easily in the guise of a Revolutionary was what made him seek out the family and collect the information needed for the Pimpernel's rescue, which Percy was downstairs reading this very moment. Percy had always told him it was unwise for Armand to play back and forth like this. Being the Pimpernel was one thing, as long as he stayed majorly in England and kept up his disguises, he was safe. But Armand, peasant though he may be, was as disgusted with the way the Revolution had turned as Percy was. Surely, the intent was noble, but neither would stand for so much blood being shed. Armand posed as a Revolutionary in Paris, fighting for his people and country against the nobility, and yet doubled back every time he could to assist the Pimpernel in stopping it. A dangerous way of life, indeed, but Armand was firmly convinced he knew sure-fire ways to slip by Chauvelin and his lot of authorities. It had worked thus far…

Marguerite could not but blink as she and Armand were reunited-this was how life should be, not a guessing-game of where she stood with her husband. "I suppose you don't," she flashed back, in reference to his 'needing a reason to visit' her. "And you look absolutely-well-splendid!" grinning, she added; "You should-" she corrected herself, "-could stay here in England, with us, this time, Armand." she smiled briefly, before dancing out of reach. "We'll marry you off, and in no time you'll be just like Percy." her voice trailed off a little, Marguerite realizing what she'd just said. Oh, Lord...

Armand jumped eagerly back to his feet, bowing in a rediculous, overdramatic fashion that perfectly imitated Percy. "Merci, mademoiselle!" Prancing after her, he laughed at her remark, paying no heed to the dip in her voice. "If that means I'll be rich and with a wife just as beautiful, then marry me off right now!" Armand, as he spoke, let his eyes rove over the vast room, and landing upon the vast open windows which led out onto a stone balcony with a beautiful view of the grounds about their home he paused in his carrying on, then turned to his sister with a more serious tone. He took hold of her hands, gently urging her towards the door. "The offer sounds lovely, Margot, but let's not talk about that now. It's a beautiful day and you shouldn't be shut up in this house the entire time. C'mon, let's go for a stroll. I've never seen your grounds in the summer time…"

Marguerite giggled appreciatively at Armand's performance, blushing slightly. "It was you who should have been the actor, Armand, not me," she told him happily, standing up and extending her hand to his, in acceptance of his invitation. "Yes, let's," she agreed, poking her head out of the doorway, she pulled her hair out of its delicate combs and grinned mischievously. "Percy..." she called, "Armand and I are going for a walk..." best to let him know, you never could tell what he was thinking. If he wandered up here and found her gone, window open? She almost smiled again at the thought. hardly waiting for a reply, she grabbed her brother's hand again and started down the stairs in a blissful state; it was just as if they were children again, except for the fact she was wearing a day-gown, and him an aristocratic...well, whatever you wanted to call it.

Armand pulled at the cuffs of his frock coat, somewhat aghast. "Now Margot, you know how bad I have stage-fright…" He took her hand, expecting a leisurely stroll out into the garden but instead found himself nearly dragged after his sister. It wasn't unusual… Armand could remember often the times they had gone about like this as children: her leading the way, sturdy and unbending though they were orphans, and despite how many times he had insisted on taking the lead she had pulled age on him. And she was older than him, if only by a year. Brave little Marguerite…she would never change. Not that he would want her to… Laughing in a like manner of gaiety he pranced after her, grinning widely as they passed the door to Percy's study which was open a mere inch or two. "Oui, monsieur! I'll try not to lose her!" Said cheerfully enough out loud, inwardly Armand felt the familiar stab of regret. It was a pain he always carried with him since those days in Paris. Marguerite had always been the mother to them both, looking out for her brother and sacrificing her own wants without heed. Armand hadn't been blind to this, even then, and as he grew older he swore he would reverse the roles and, like a proper man, he would take care of her. But it never seemed to happen. In his mind Marguerite was too independent and wild to be settled down anywhere. When they'd reached their ages she'd gone off and started working as an actress, gotten married, and what had he done? Back to the streets… But it was a passing thought. He didn't let that interfere with the present happiness of being with his sister. Nothing, not even regrets, could ever dim that. "Onward ho, mademoiselle!" he chirped, heading for the back door inside the den that led out into the garden.

Percy felt a distinct wave of cold wash over him as his eyes took in the scrawlings of the letters laying about the desk. "Lord," he sighed, leaning forward to cover his face wearily. Did those French never stop? Not only had they the want to guillotine aristocrats, but now their entire families?! The Marquis de Searlas had been a watched-over target for a long while by the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. He had his wife, his mother, his sister, and three small children living with him in Paris, and yet had been so stubborn to ignore the warnings the League gave him about the growing French mobs. Now he and his family were captured, prepared to be guillotined at dawn the next day. How could those black-hearted heathens possibly guillotine children? Of all people! "This is what you get for not listening," Percy mumbled, rubbing his forehead. But that was just exasperating his worry. Things would have to be done quickly in order for him to get the proper transportation and people there in time. Rising from his desk, Percy set about to make the necessary arrangements.

He stopped when he heard first the voice of his wife and her brother. Looking up to the door, he saw through the small opening the flash of Marguerite's dress pass by. You're so worried about other families, he scolded himself in shame. You should be worrying about your own… "Have fun, you school children!" his ninny voice rang out on its own, giving no trace of his inward thoughts. It was all the better they should leave. If he was lucky, and all went well, he would be gone by the time they returned. God willing… Already taking pen to paper, Percy began writing, and paused after he'd not written but a few words.

"To my dearly beloved Marguerite,"

He couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Here he was, about to leave again without any warning. Leave his wife with only a note explaining his actions. What on earth did she think when she read these little letters of his? Wouldn't blame her one demmed bit if she thought I was having an affair, he thought bitterly. Even more if she went off to have one herself. Would serve me well… But he wouldn't allow himself to think of it any longer. It hurt too much. Taking a breath, he started writing again, grim with determination. Yes, he would be gone by the time they returned.