Prologue
In Which Josephine is Stolen, Marguerite Meets Sir Percy, and the Bennéts Go into Hiding

Secret engagements were all well and good in theory, but in practice, they were terribly difficult to maintain, not to mention rather vexatious. Josephine Aldridge was hardly a shy person by nature, being raised French and therefore having not the inhibitions that the English possessed, and thus this whole "secret engagement" business was hardly romantic in her eyes. She loved her fiancée dearly, more than anything, and if his word was to be trusted--which it was--he loved her as well; why should they not tell the world? Only her good Catholic faith (which she did her best to remain loyal to despite the English dislike of Catholics in general and her own countrymen's growing anger with the Church) and her love for her very English father kept her from demanding that they be married within the week.

Her faith told her that such things had to be entered calmly and sedately, with plenty of time for reflection. Divorce was a sin, and therefore marriage was not (despite what some practitioners seemed to believe, she thought with distaste) to be entered lightly.

As for her father, the inhibitions she herself lacked were ones her father possessed in spades. He would demand that proper decorum be followed to the letter, and she would do whatever he asked of her. Her mother, wretch that the woman was, Josephine would willingly and happily ignore; her father, however, was as dear to her as her fiancée, if such a thing were possible, and if he wanted her to wait for propriety's sake, then wait she would.

Not only this, but her beloved was also very English in his mannerisms, which meant that propriety was near and dear to his heart as well. Only an extreme love for both gentlemen kept Josephine from allowing her French heritage to take control and show her exasperation.

However, despite all of England's shortcomings, the country really had done her nothing but good. Here she had truly found happiness. She had friends that wouldn't betray her to the guillotine at a moment's notice. She had found a love that she had never believed possible. Executions were not celebrated affairs where spectators were happiest when the blood spurted them. People could, and did, trust each other. She was happy in England.

Depend on her blasted mother to ruin everything.

Settled in for the night with her book and favorite silk sleeping gown, Josephine was quite prepared not stir from her bed for at least ten good, solid hours. In fact, so absorbed was she that, despite her typically keen senses, she did not hear the slight disturbances coming from the lower floor of her father's home, Ravensgate by name.

When it seemed she could keep her eyes open no longer, Josephine sighed and regretfully shut her book. It crossed her mind, not for the first time, that she would get so very much more done in her life if she never needed to sleep. She had half a mind, in fact, to try it, though familiarity with such experiments kept her from more than passive thoughts. She set the book on the nearby nightstand and was prepared to blow out the candle when she realized that her typical evening tea, which was brought to her every evening before she went to sleep, had not come.

What an odd occurrence! The help was extremely reliable, and it was one of the few demands she ever really made. Having grown up in France, where the general unrest had grown great enough to render servitude of any sort a severe grievance that was highly frowned upon by the general populace, Josephine was used to doing things herself. As far as she was concerned, the help was more for good conversation than actual "help," and she was careful to keep her demands few and insubstantial.

Thinking to get the tea herself, she rose and donned her robe, carelessly exiting her rooms and meandering down the hall to the staircase. It was there that the heavy stillness of the house occurred to her. The hour was not so very late, and so some activity should have been discernible. The entire house, in fact, was entirely too dim to be considered normal, and she paused at the top of the steps.

Not even the night doorman was at his post. This was, indeed, cause for no little concern. Now more focused with finding her father's employees than getting her nightly tea, Josephine descended the steps as quietly as she could, hardly daring to breathe. Something was wrong, frightfully wrong, and she was beginning to wonder if perhaps venturing from her bed had been wise.

Her father was away on business, but her fiancée's cousin and her intimate friend's brother lived roughly eight miles from her father's estate--the Darcys owned roughly half of Derbyshire, and the Aldridges own the other half, and had for nearly a century. Ought she to send for him? No, she quickly decided. No need to disturb poor Mr. Darcy because she was feeling a bit skittish. More than likely there was nothing amiss, she reasoned, and there was no need to bother anyone.

Unless, of course, she didn't find any of the servants. Then, perhaps, she would send for help.

Her first thought, naturally, was to look in the kitchen, and so that was the direction she went, crossing the dining hall--for it was, truly, a hall, rather than a room; she rather thought she would have preferred a room--to cautiously enter the kitchen. At first, there was nothing, save for the same dimness which was all over the house. There was, however, a bit more light in the kitchen--the dying fire was serving its purpose even as it smoldered in mere embers. Josephine went over stoked the fire a bit, bringing it to a low flame. Now better able to see, she turned to inspect the kitchen.

It was odd, seeing it so empty. There was always someone in the kitchen. But that was just the problem--she had yet to see anyone, quite literally. More than a little nervous, she slowly picked the poker back up, holding it rather like she'd seen Richard, her fiancée, hold it while mock-dueling his cousin, the only difference being that she kept it pointed toward the grown. Nervously she peered around the room, slowly moving forward, half expecting someone to jump out and yell at her, as they would in a joke.

Then she saw the familiar form of one of the cooks, Burns by name, sitting in a chair at the small, square table, and sighed in relief. "Mr. Burns," she said to him, her words possessing a slight French accent, "you frightened me most severely!" She set down the poker and went to address him face to face. "I thought that everyone had been murdered or-"

She broke off in horror. Mr. Burns was staring out at the world with a look of pain and terror, and in his throat was a gaping wound. Blood drenched his front, running slowly down him to drip onto the floor. Her eyes, in some sort of transfixed horror, followed the rivulets to where they gathered on the stone floor, forming a puddle of no mean size.

A whimper emerged unbidden from her as she stumbled back in terror, feeling vaguely ill. "Mr. Whitmore!" she cried desperately, praying the old butler would hear. "Someone! Anyone! Mr. Burns-"

One of the nearby shadows moved, stepping into the dim light, and she let out a low scream. "They won't 'ear you, mam'zelle," he said in a menacing growl. "Their fates were similar."

She backed away as he advanced, too horrified for words. One of her hands hit something--a pot left from dinner. Without thinking, she seized it and hurled it at the man, then turned and fled.

There was a furious roar from behind her as she bashed through the kitchen door. There was another yell, and she realized that she had hit someone as she emerged from the kitchen. She skidded to a halt, thinking that someone had heard her cries, only to have a dirty hand grab at her nightgown.

Josephine shrieked, lashed out with her foot, then ran when she was released. "She's gone for the entry way!" a voice yelled, and there was a response from somewhere ahead of her. What was said, she couldn't tell, but she quickly changed directions, heading for the servants' stair that was hidden behind a panel that was just beside a display cabinet.

She forced herself to think as she raced up the stairs. There can only be so many of them, she thought desperately as she emerged in an upstairs corridor. She slid the paneling shut behind her. They could never fit a whole army in this house, or whatever organization they brought. I simply have to out maneuver them and get to the stables. From there I may escape to Pemberly and the protection of Richard's cousins. I must get to the stables.

Her heart was pounding furiously, and she was shaking so badly that she could hardly stand. Her breathing was labored, and yet her chest was so tight that she was nearly suffocating. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name.

She crept to the edge of the staircase and peered down. One of them was searching behind the curtains--stupid man, how on earth could she have gotten there without being seen--and another was heading directly for the stairs.

Josephine barely managed to stifle a scream as he began his ascent, and she tucked herself away in the shadows, squeezing her eyes shut and holding her breath even as she thought her lungs might burst. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.

The footsteps approached, but did not pause, or even hesitate. In fact, by some miracle, they continued on past without concern. Josephine opened her eyes, hardly daring to believe it possible. But, there he was, continuing down the hall in his search for her. Now for a way to make her own escape.

Her eyes found the door to a guest room, in which she knew there was another hidden staircase for the servants. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that she had no choice but to gain access to that staircase. It was her only means of escape. And yet her couldn't seem to get her muscles to work. She was frozen, paralyzed with fear in her pathetic hiding place.

Move Josephine, she thought. Move. You must move. Now. NOW!

As quickly and silently as she could, she stole across the hall and grabbed the door handle--locked! She barely managed to suppress the scream of terror and frustration, but somehow did, whirling about to find another door.

"There! At the door!" a gruff voice yelled, and she raced across the hall to another door. Please open, please open…

Success! She hurled herself into the room and, seemingly in the same movement, slammed it shut and locked it behind her. It was another guest room--the same room, in fact, that Richard had slept in when a violent storm had rendered him unable to return to Pemberly not three weeks before. The knowledge that her fiancée, a Colonel in the British army and completely dauntless, had been in that very room not all that very long ago gave her a strange sort of hope, and she quickly made for the entrance to the servants' stair as her pursuers began their assault on the door.

She found the paneling, slid it open, then replaced it all as quickly as she could, then descended the stairs with both haste and care--her efforts would be wholly fruitless if they heard her. Give us this day our daily Bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…

At the bottom of the steps she pressed her ear against the paneling, and was met with complete silence. After another moment's listening, she gently slid the panel open and stepped into, to her horror, the kitchen. … and lead us not into temptation…

She stepped into that dreaded room, terrified that she would espy the brutally murdered Mr. Burns, and quickly made her way back into the dining hall, the doors having been left open in the pursuit. She crept to the grand double doors at the end of the hall, which opened into the sitting where they received guests. But even as her hand touched the handle, it was pushed open, and only a strength of will she hadn't known she possessed kept her from shrieking as she hid behind the door. … but deliver us from-

The door was suddenly ripped away, exposing her in full, and she screamed as rough hands seized her and dragged her forward. She struggled fiercely as the men hauled her into the sitting room, but it was in vain. They dragged her along to the entry, then threw her to the ground in the center, and she was quickly circled by roughly a dozen men, all of whom looked capable of brutal murder.

There were tears streaming down her face now, a mixture of terror, grief, and despair. At that moment, a figure entered the circle which she thought she would never be happy to see.

"Mother!" she cried as relief flooded her. "Mother, thank God. Please, help me!"

"That is what I am here to do," she replied coldly in French.

Josephine made to question her, but the woman snapped her fingers, and suddenly the men set upon her, dragging her struggling form from the house. She was drug down the steps and flung into a carriage, where she threw herself at the door, to no avail. Defeated, she dissolved into tears.


The performance had, quite clearly, been a success. Marguerite St. Just felt quite justified in her elated mood--no actress in the world would have felt otherwise. Dressed in a silk dinner gown that would have suited any of the French aristocracy--which, in practice, no longer existed, all titles of nobility having recently been abolished--she emerged in the grand foyer of the Comédie Française to greet her adoring public.

The crowds that instantly swarmed her were of naught but foolish admirers infatuated with a pretty face and a reputation for being the cleverest woman in France. She had not earned this reputation for nothing, and so saw through the airs and pretensions as if they did not exist. In truth, despite her apparently enraptured countenance, she was frightfully bored by the entire affair. What was the point of even showing herself? She would much rather have invited her friends--the few truly intelligent people she knew--into her salon and spent her time there, rather than facing the fops who merely wanted a trophy to hang on their arm.

"My dearest Marguerite!" the manager, Monsieur Reynard, cried suddenly, pushing his way through the crowd to grab her hand. "There is a man here, an Englishman, who wishes to meet the famed Marguerite St. Just, if you will allow it."

Just as she would have on stage, she played for her audience, holding up her hands in a questioning manner and inquiring, "Do you believe this man to be worth departing from my dear companions here?"

Those surrounding her laughed as M. Reynard replied, "I believe he his, my dear, I believe he is. Come," he took her hand and gently pulled her forward. He was heading towards a tall man--a very tall man--who was more than a little striking. In fact, it was entirely safe to say that he was devastatingly attractive, an idea which caused her insides to give a little squirm of anticipation. He was a very large man, the very image of protectiveness. And yet he still looked completely at ease, gazing about the room with an almost bored expression. Then his eye lit upon her, and suddenly he looked much less bored. He presented her with his full attention, reaching out a hand as she approached.

Slightly overwhelmed by this tall Englishman, she slid her hand into his without hesitation, and he kissed it gallantly. Dimly she realized that her manager was speaking.

"Marguerite, this is Sir Percy Blakeney, one of the most influential men in England. Sir Percy, this is Marguerite St. Just, our star and the cleverest and most beautiful woman in France," M. Reynard said grandly.

"Very pleased to make the acquaintance of so striking a lady," Sir Percy Blakeney drawled. "Your titles suit you, Mademoiselle."

Marguerite found herself smiling at him despite herself. "The sentiment it returned, I assure you," she said in slightly accented English. "I pray that your stay here will be enjoyable."

"If enjoyment is your hope," he replied in that same drawl, "then you may safely assume that I am already fulfilling it, thanks to you."

This man was different from the others. He meant what he said--every word. He wasn't simply spouting off pretty phrases in the hopes of gaining her friendship. His sincerity was genuine and refreshing. Not only this, though; there was… something. Something about him


It was, perhaps, the most difficult thing the Marquis de Bennét had ever done, telling his daughters that they would be forced to leave behind everything they'd ever known in order to simply stay free. Members of the aristocracy, no matter how generous they were with their wealth, were being arrested on weak and fraudulent charges, and the very last thing he wanted for his daughters was imprisonment. And so it was with a heavy heart that he called his two oldest daughters, the twins Elizabeth and Jane, into his study.

Though they were twins, the two girls looked remarkably different. Jane was a pale beauty, with curls that looked elegant no matter their state and blue eyes that entranced even the hardest of hearts. She was tall and willowy, and routinely was on the receiving end of impassioned (and impromptu) proposals. Elizabeth, on the other hand, and dark hair, nearly black, that fell in gentle waves rather than luxurious curls. Her eyes were a glittering hazel, and she was shorter than her sister by half a foot. She was, however, very beautiful in her own right, or so her father believed. She was also the cleverest of all his children and therefore his favorite.

Though, he had to admit, he didn't really believe that a father was supposed to have a favorite.

Both girls--young women, really--came and knelt on either side of him, each of them gripping one of his hands. How dear they were to him! It pained him to think of his two dearest girls wearing their worst gowns daily, simply to please a lot of lunatic fools who couldn't see that not all of the rich were bad people.

"I am very much afraid, my dear ones," he said after a long moment's hesitation, "that our lives are going to change, and they will get much worse before they get better."