And thus, I update! Hello, my wonderful readers! Ok, so I have gotten a bunch of reviews for this one, and I am happy beyond compare. Really. So, I am taking time out to set aside a small part of the authors note to the wonderful people who reviewed.
kilikiwi - Thank you so much! I'll try to make this as good as possible!
A.Chauvelin - I believe I have already told you how amazingly hard you rock, but I shall say it again: you rock SO hard! Glad you like this one so much!
Lis - Yay! Thank you! Well, here's what he does next. I'll get to progressing this story in the next chapter. Most of my set up is done. Hope you enjoy.
And thus. Oh, and if you have the wonderful urge to review like these fine examples of humanity have done, please leave me a way I can get in contact with you so I can properly thank you. I write essays of thanks. Really, I love you guys for reviewing, and I will thank you accordingly. Ah, and I have discovered that I really don't like flames. So, if you have a problem with what I'm writing, give me the problem, and give me some way I can change it to make the story better. Constructive criticism is fine; flames, no. Thank you.
Ok, the returning adventures of this bastard known as Lucian. If you have gotten this far, you probably don't mind oryoulikethe Chauvelin Marguerite pairing, because that's what this is based on. But just in case, this chapter shall be mildly, if not heavily Chauvelin Marguerite. If you don't like it, I'm terribly sorry. But there's some Percy Marguerite at the end. And now I'll probably be updating more often, as the chapters will probably be shorter since my setup is done. So...umm, yeah. That's it. Please! Review! I love them oh so very much! And if you want to see something happen, please let me know, and I will work it in somehow. Really. Someone wanted me to do an AU for Falcon, and I am doing an AU for Falcon. Want to see something, it will get done.
As promised, I'm dedicating this chapter to A.Chauvelin. This person of all people is perfectly marvelous.
Disclaimer: I own Lucian. Go me. But sadly, anything Scarlet Pimpernel is not mine.
Soon the Moon Will Smoulder
Chapter 5: But His Soul Remains Alive
Marguerite waived goodbye to Percy as he and the former League of the Scarlet Pimpernel sped away to Dover to take a trip to France. Though the League was no longer needed, there was no better group of men for the task of finding out what the Emperor Napoleon was up to.
When her husband and his men were out of sight, Marguerite made her way up to her rooms; she was exhausted and in desperate need of rest. Leaving the door to her room slightly ajar, she slowly walked in, yawning and letting her hair down. Choosing against changing into sleeping attire, she lay down on the bed and nearly instantly drifted off to sleep.
She slept not for five minutes before she was pulled back into consciousness by the sudden slamming of her door. Groaning in irritation, she turned over and buried her head into her pillow.
"Mon Dieu, Marguerite. You really have changed."
Marguerite's eyes shot open. That wasn't right. Her mind desperately tried to connect to something and she quickly jumped out of bed as she recognized that all too familiar voice that time had forced her to forget.
The man laughed coldly as he pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against. "That is more like it, cherie. When I knew you, you would have jumped like that when I slammed the door. Has England really destroyed you so much to dull your senses like that?"
"Chauvelin, you…" Marguerite swallowed hard. The man that was now slowly making his way toward her was most certainly no longer living; she saw him die.
"And damaged your ability to properly speak French," Chauvelin sneered in contempt. "A waste of a brilliant woman such as yourself."
"You're dead!" Marguerite finally managed to shout, feeling tears well up in her eyes, more so from fear then anything else.
"Oh?" Chauvelin said quietly, gently running his finger across her cheek. Marguerite shuddered; his touch was electric and most definitely real. "Death is little more then a frame of mind," he said quietly, indifferently shrugging his shoulders.
"I watched you die!" Marguerite cried, the tears now running down her face. This could not be happening…
Chauvelin smiled slyly as he slowly approached the lovely woman who he had backed into a corner. Ah, the thrill of the power of being in complete control. "Did you miss me, ma amour?"
"No!"
"Ah, but you lie, my Marguerite. You do not go a day without me in your thoughts." Whatever kindness he previously expressed was quickly replaced by that cold, bitter, manipulative side that was so common of him. Firmly seizing her arms, he pulled her back against him and latched his hands on her waist.
"Tell me, Margot. How often have you wondered what kind of a husband and father I would have been? How many nights have you lain in your bed and imagined me next to you?" Feeling the woman tense in his arms, he knew that he had hit a cord of truth within her and nuzzled her neck, gently biting her earlobe. "Darling, how often does your husband make love to you and you imagine it is me? How many times have you had to stop yourself from crying out my name?"
"Chauvelin, I…"
"Still love me? I know that."
"No!" Marguerite finally managed to pull herself away from the man. "I love my husband, Chauvelin."
"Of course you do," the agent said tiredly, sighing slightly and watching her move away from him with a bored expression fixed in his eyes. "I know you love him more then you ever loved me, but that doesn't change the fact that you cannot forget me. Don't lie to yourself, Marguerite. Despite the fact that you love that blasted Pimpernel, somewhere in your heart, you still love me."
"Not so," Marguerite sneered in defiance. "Fifteen years, Chauvelin. It has been fifteen years since I have even heard word of you. That is time enough to make the heart forget!"
Before she even knew what was happening, she was in the arms of the agent once again, his hand gently sheltering her cheek as he softly kissed her, and she could not feel the strength to pull away.
"My son, Marguerite," Chauvelin whispered gently as he pulled away from the woman. "How could you claim to forget me when I fathered your first child?" Marguerite felt her face flush, her heart quicken; he was pulling her in again, and she felt herself falling, but could do nothing. Those golden eyes, the same as her son's, they held her in place.
"My Lucian," the agent cooed softly before gently kissing the woman again. "Beautiful child, just like his mother." Gently laying his head on hers and inhaling the sent of roses, he quietly whispered, "Margot, I want him to come home to France."
Marguerite tensed. "Chauvelin, no…"
"He belongs there, Marguerite," he said firmly, interrupting the woman's protests. "You know as well as I that he is too much like me to exist anywhere else. Let him. Tell him of me, and send him off."
Marguerite looked up helplessly at the man and gently laid her head on his chest, saying nothing. He was absolutely right. Lucian was desperately unhappy in England. He needed her home country.
"I missed you, my Marguerite, my only love." She looked in his eyes once again and was met with the overbearing passion that was so typically in his eyes when he gazed at her and it was all over. She ran her delicate hands through his jet-black hair and passionately kissed him, slowly moving closer as they became more fervent in their actions.
Her whole life, her husband, her children, were slowly fading away and her focus shifted to the man that now kissed her, her first lover. Nothing else mattered but him. And that all too familiar feeling, the warmth that spread from her chest slowly down her body…wait, that was not right…
She slowly pulled her lips away from his and glanced down at her chest and reeled in horror; both she and the agent were covered in blood. "Chauvelin…you're-"
"I never said, Marguerite, that I was not dead."
Marguerite would have screamed, ran away if she could, but terror froze her to the spot and she could do little more then stare in horror into the black hollows in which the agent's golden eyes should have been. "Did you honestly think differently?" the man said coldly. "Marguerite, you killed me."
No. Marguerite tried to speak, but heard no sound, but had the eerie feeling that the agent could hear her. No, it was an accident.
"Come with me, Marguerite," Chauvelin said cruelly as he wrapped his long fingers around the pale, frightened woman's slender neck. Marguerite finally managed to snap out of her stupor and desperately struggled to pry Chauvelin's hand from her throat, but she slowly became weaker as the man's grip slowly constricted and she could no longer breathe.
The lovely woman watched through blurry eyes as the agent slowly faded as she lost consciousness. The pressure suddenly lifted and with a quick intake of breath, Marguerite shot up, wide eyed, and found herself in the arms of a lean, strong man.
"You're so tense? What happened?"
Marguerite looked at the man in terror, the image of Chauvelin remaining for a few moments more before it faded away and she recognized her son.
Her deep blue eyes darted around the room, but there was no sign that the deceased agent had even been there; she must have been dreaming.
"Mother, are you sick? You're so pale. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Luc. Just a bad dream."
"Will you be alright?" Lucian asked softly, suddenly extremely concerned for his beloved mother. He suddenly felt his resolve falter; he could not find it within himself to force his mother to tell him about the agent, for he knew the mere mention would hurt her.
"Yes, Lucian. I'm fine," she said softly, gently hugging her son and kissing her forehead. "Thank you."
Lucian sighed in defeat; for the life of him, he could not understand why all of his advantages dissolved in the presence of his mother.
"Where is your father, Lucian?"
I don't know, mother. Why don't you tell me? "Making a rather pitiful attempt to rid the house of our guests." Lucian mentally beat himself; so much for seizing his opportunities.
"Ah. I suppose I should be a proper hostess and bid our guests farewell." She slowly released her son and slowly got off the bed. "Will you be joining me, Luc?"
"No, mother. I have used up all my fraternizing skills for the day."
Marguerite smiled softly at the seemingly melancholy boy. "Whatever you want, my Luc."
Lucian watched in defeat as his mother began to leave the room, but impulsively called after her, and she stopped and looked inquisitively at the suddenly uncomfortable child. "Mother?"
"Yes?"
Casting his eyes to the floor, Lucian muttered a barely audible "Nothing." Marguerite smiled kindly at the boy and left to play hostess.
As soon as his mother left, Lucian flopped back on the bed. Lord, he was such a useless failure! His most vital link between Chauvelin and himself and he could not find the power to draw what he needed from her. Useless!
He ran a hand over his face before he lay still; he had thought far too much for the day; his head hurt terribly and he was more then content with the prospects of shutting his brain off for a while.
He had only a few moments of peace before his keen ears picked up rapid, light footfalls coming down the hall toward the room in which he was resting. Groaning in irritation, he lifted his head just in time to see twelve year old Acton Dewhurst dash into the room. What was that pest still doing in his home? Deciding that life was obviously not worth all of this trouble, Lucian let his head drop back on the mattress.
Acton quickly looked around the room and was about to leave when his light brown eyes fell on the eldest Blakeney sprawled lazily on the bed. Lucian was smart, and so the child rushed to the bed in hopes of getting him to help him.
In a rash action that Lucian would never forgive him for, Acton latched on to the exhausted boy's leg and pulled. Lucian did not move much, but the very fact that the young Dewhurst had the gall to so much as touch him would have sent his temper flying had he not been so physically and mentally drained; Acton would get off easy this time, but oh, that boy would pay later. Burrying his face into the pillow, he made an attempt to ignore the small boy.
Acton could not understand why the older boy was not reacting; he should have gotten at least a slight response, but Lucian just lay there, completely immobile. Perhaps he was dead, and Acton made it his duty to check. Latching on harder, the little Dewhurst pulled the leg more ferociously then before, but was stopped nearly instantly as he was knocked back and forced to release the captive leg as he was hit square in the face with a pillow; nope, definitely not dead.
"What in blazes do you want, pest?" Lucian shouted as loud as he could as the young boy was knocked to the ground.
Acton quite literally bounced off the ground and was on his feet again in a matter of seconds. "Help me!"
Lucian rolled his eyes and flopped back on the bed; he was nearly twice the size of young Acton and could crush the boy with little effort. He was of no concern to Chauvelin's son.
Acton latched on to the leg again and pulled, but soon found another pillow in his face and he was knocked to the ground yet again. Jumping up, he pointed menacingly at the boy on the bed. "Alright, now you're out of pillows. Help me!"
"Why are you still here?" Lucian snapped angrily.
"I'm spending the night!" Acton cried happily.
"Ugh…" That made it clear; life clearly had no meaning. God clearly wanted him to suffer. "What are you doing, Dewhurst?" Lucian asked apathetically.
"Helouise and I are playing and it is my turn to hide and she must find me!" Acton looked expectantly at the eldest Blakeney, waiting for an acknowledgement that he had heard him, but Lucian just lay there, eyes closed and hand resting on his chest. "Where can I hide where she would never find me?" he whispered in frustration, quickly looking around the room.
Lucian lifted his head for a moment and stared at the expectant boy before he let his head drop back down and he softly whispered, "Under the bed."
Hearing the swift pattering of feet coming down the hall, Acton dove into the small space between the floor and the bed.
When Helouise ran into the room, she grinned in delight at the sight of her brother and pounced upon him. "Luc! Where have you been all day?" the sweet girl cried happily as she kissed his forehead.
"Here and there, dear sister."
Helouise lay down on top of him, resting her head on his chest. "I wanted to talk to you earlier before our guests arrived, but I could not find you."
"About what, Helouise?" Lucian said quietly, gently running his hand through her strawberry blonde hair.
"Getting married. I think I should start considering who I should take as my husband and I want your consent and approval of the man I choose."
"You know I have no power over who it is you are to marry. Why ask me for something like this?" Lucian asked coldly. He was not usually standoffish toward his sister, but this was a rather uncomfortable, touchy subject. He did not like the idea of his beloved sister being taken away by some man unworthy of her brilliance; if he had it his way, he would never allow her to leave him.
"Why? Because I love you, Luc, and I care about what you have to say. I want you to approve."
Lucian shook his head. "No, no. You are not even a woman, love. You are too young to even be thinking of marriage."
Helouise considered this for a moment before quickly kissing her brother and sliding off of the bed. "You are right, of course. Thank you, Luc. And now if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to."
"Oh? And what would that be?"
"I am looking for Acton." The bright girl perked up and jumped back on the bed. "Oh, Lucian! You haven't seen him, have you?"
Propped up on his elbows, he looked at his sister with a tired, bored glance before falling back down and casually stated, "He's under the bed."
Squealing in delight, Helouise dove to the floor and squirmed under the bed, emerging a few seconds later dragging an outraged Acton by the leg. "Lucian, you weren't supposed to tell her where I was!"
"What did you expect me to have done, Dewhurst?" he said quietly, chuckling softly. "I am but a man. How did you expect me to resist that girl's charms?"
"My turn to hide!" Helouise cried excitedly as she rushed out of the room.
Propping himself up on his elbows once again, Lucian looked down at Acton, who was glaring as viciously as he could at the intimidating older boy. "You were not supposed to tell."
"Why ever not, Dewhurst?" Lucian asked the boy coldly.
"Because it's traitorous, Lucian!" Acton cried indignantly as he jumped up from the ground.
"How did you fit under there?" Lucian asked quietly as he leaned over the side of the mattress and carefully examined the underside of the bed.
"What? It was easy."
"Really? But it's such a small space."
"Yes, well, I have to hide from my sisters, so small places are best. They're crazy, you know."
Lucian carefully mulled this over and slowly asked the fidgeting young boy, "How are you at sneaking around?"
"I'm really good at that, Lucian!" Acton cried excitedly. He did so love things he was good at.
The older boy smiled slyly. "How would you like to play a game, Acton?"
"I can't now, I'm playing with Helouise."
"You miss my meaning. This is a long-term game. It's continuous. It starts now, and it doesn't stop, but you can do other things while you play this game. Do you understand?"
Acton took a moment to consider before he happily cried, "Alright, I'll play! What are we playing?"
Grinning maliciously and sliding off the bed, he quickly went to a desk in the room and grabbed some paper and a pin from his mother's bureau. "We are going to play spies. I am the head of the agency, and you are my top spy."
"Oh, fun!" Acton cried excitedly as he bounded over to Lucian's side. "When do we start?"
"Now, if you so please. Would you like your first mission?"
"Yes sir!" Smiling lazily, Lucian stuck the pin in to his palm and slid it across his hand, opening a shallow but quickly bleeding wound. Acton recoiled in shock at the sight of the blood. "Lucian, what are you doing?" the young Dewhurst asked quietly as he watched the elder boy dip something into the cut and draw it across the paper.
Quickly blowing on the scrap of paper, Lucian handed the parchment to the wide-eyed child. "Look at that," he said quietly as he wrapped his hand in his shirt. "Do you know what that is?"
Acton looked at the paper and knew in an instant what the glistening red, star shaped flower was. "That's a Scarlet Pimpernel, Lucian."
"Very good. I want you, Acton, to find anything you can with this symbol or anything pertaining to it. Find things, secure them, and bring them to me."
"And that is my mission?" Acton asked skeptically.
"That is all, Acton."
The young Dewhurst laughed. "That's easy, Lucian! I really hope the next one is more difficult."
"Oh? Is it so easy?" Lucian asked softly.
"Yes. I've seen something like this in my father's study. I'll bring it to you next time I come over," Acton said arrogantly as he left the room to look for the renegade Blakeney daughter.
Lucian looked in shock at the place where the Dewhurst heir stood long after he had left. Tony Dewhurst, British noble and damned idiot, was connected with that legendary hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel. There was little doubt that he was actually a member of the League, but the man could very well be that elusive phantom. Lucian sat cross-legged on the ground; this was far too easy. The Pimpernel was too clever, too slippery to be so careless as to leave something so vital simply lying around. Of course, the Pimpernel was no longer active, and secrecy was no longer needed, though it was still maintained. Tony could be it, and if that was the case, then Acton and his sisters must die as well. He could not risk the threat of another Pimpernel and was fully intent on cutting off and destroying the entire line of the hero.
Quickly dashing to the door, he suddenly became dizzy and light headed. Gripping his head and sinking to his knees, he waited for it to pass and remembered that he had forgotten to eat that day. Rolling his eyes in irritation of having to submit to such a menial thing as hunger, he slowly rose to his feet and headed to the kitchens to demand sustenance.
As his general bad luck would have it, on his way to the kitchen, Lucian passed by his brother Blake, alone and looking for something to occupy his short attention span. Seizing his chance for amusement, Blake reeled on his brother and trotted closely at his side. "Sink me, if it isn't my dear brother!" Blake cried in his best imitation of his father. "La, but this is demned convenient, what?"
"Drop the act, Blake," Lucian growled sharply, and the young Blakeney instantly became serious, his foppish demeanor falling away as though it was not even there.
"What's wrong, Lucian?" Blake asked quietly, concern for his brother filling his voice. He put his hand on his brother's shoulder, and Lucian quickly knocked it away.
"I hate you, Blake! What more do you want from me?" the boy shouted, desperately fighting the tears that threatened to fall from his golden eyes. Blake had Percy's love, now for a quite obvious reason, and for this, Lucian hated them both.
"What? Lucian, why?" Blake asked quietly, hurt by the words of his brother. Oh, he knew that the golden child hated him, but to be told was an entirely different matter, a reminder, and it hurt.
Lucian threw open the doors to the kitchens, Blake following closely at his heels, and quickly approached the chefs. Slamming his hand hard upon the counter, he sharply demanded, "Food. Bring it," and the chefs were sent scrambling instantly; the child was clearly irritated and none wanted to incur the boy's notoriously violent wrath.
Lucian did not wait a second more with the frantic servants and stormed into the dining room, seating himself at the head of the large table. Blake tentatively sat down in the chair nearest his fuming brother and nervously played with a fork. "Lucian, you didn't mean it when you said you hated me, did you?" Blake asked softly, careful not to upset his brother's already frazzled nerves.
Lucian didn't answer, just sat in an irritated silence until the servants dashed in and lay an assortment of breads, meats, and cheeses before him. He organized everything on the plate in a fashion that he found acceptable before he softly whispered, "No, Blake. I meat it with all my soul."
Blake's heart sank; though he did not adore his brother as his sister did, he did try to create a feeling of mutual respect and acceptance between the two of them, but he always knew that it would never happen. Lucian was far too different from him for there to be a peaceful existence between them, but it was really their similarities that kept them apart. Both boys had a keen sense of justice and fierce determination, though Lucian made a greater effort to display this then Blake, who preferred to be subtle. And both were stubborn like nobody's business, a quality they acquired from their mother, and immeasurable brave and fearless, traits they received from their respective fathers. Yet minor differences in these characteristics forced the two boys apart; where they could have been a great force in unison, they became opposing forces to be reckoned with. Lucian understood this; Blake was just beginning to realize this.
"Why, Luc?" Blake asked sadly. "I don't understand why."
"I do not ask you to understand. Just know that I loathe you."
"But I like you."
"No. You don't," Lucian said coldly, tentatively holding a knife between his fingers. "You tolerate me because you must. You like me no more then I like you, and you, dear Blake, damn well know it."
"I made the attempt to," Blake said quietly after a long pause.
"You did, but trying means little and changes nothing."
"No, perhaps not. But," Blake growled quietly, his deep blue eyes locking with the other boy's pale yellow ones, "it never hurt to try."
"But did not help, and was therefore a waste of time and effort. You knew long ago that you and I could never coexist."
"But I fought for that chance anyway!"
"Because you are little more then a fool!" Lucian shouted, finally losing his temper with his brother. "A lost cause! You fought a battle you could never win! What's wrong with you?"
"There is no challenge or sense of accomplishment in fighting what you know will be a victory!" Blake shouted back, his temper finally getting the best of him as well.
"And you find gratification in defeat?" Lucian sneered in contempt. "Christ, Blake, you are more of an idiot then I previously imagined." Lucian pushed away from the table and stood up; his brother's foolish antics were growing tiresome. "I am finished with you, Blake. Considering how much I hate you, I believe that you will find it in your best interests to leave me my space."
"And I have just started with you, Luc!" Blake called after his brother as the flustered, exhausted boy began to leave. "Heaven help me, I will find some good in you!"
"And Heaven help me, I will prove you wrong!" the enraged child shouted at his smugly grinning brother as he slammed the door behind him and stormed into the garden.
Lucian stumbled across the lawns, sluggishly trying to keep himself steady, but the entire day's happenings were finally catching up with him; the initial discovery of the martyr's new significance in his life gave him the strength and drive to do all he had done to secure what he needed to know about his father. But now, as the day drew to a close, the actual meaning of his newfound situation began to weigh heavy upon him and he suddenly could not shake the quickly rising depression and the desperate loneliness that threatened to overtake him.
Unsteadily dragging his feet through his mother's rose garden, he unceremoniously flopped upon a stone bench, quietly gasping for breath; breathing had suddenly become difficult and painful, and he nearly cried. The thrill of actually being the son of the man he idolized had suddenly worn off; that stunning revelation changed who he was. At least before he had a sense of stability, a security of knowing form whence he came, but now he found himself knocked to the ground from his previous inhibitions, and he now had no idea who he was. How could he if he had no idea who the man who made up half his stock was?
Oh, and that man, the agent, the martyr, the saint, whatever, was so very unreachable. Anything and everything Lucian knew of Chauvelin was secondhand, and he knew so well that everything but firsthand information was unreliable. He would never know Chauvelin, and he felt lost because of it; he would never know who he was. At least before, he had an idea, and even though he hated it, it was still better than now.
As bad as that all was, the actual reality of Lucian's very existence was by far worse, and he knew full well what it meant. He was a mistake. He should not have existed. And his mother, oh, there was a clean one! That darling mother of his was unfaithful to the Lord Blakeney during the course of their marriage, and though he hated the man, he could not help but pity his surrogate father. And Percy loved his mother so very much; what a slap to his face. Why had he taken his mother back? No wonder Percy hated him; he was little more then a reminder of his wife's infidelity. And that was all he was, the result of the passions that his whore of a mother shared with another man. Poor Percy…
Lucian's golden eyes briefly flashed with intense cruelty. Of course, there were two sides to every story. On one extreme, his mother was little more then a common whore. But on the other hand…
Despite his previous intent to stop thinking for the day, Lucian sat up and gently pressed his fingertips together. Perhaps his mother actually loved the agent. After all, he vividly remembered times when he was younger when he would catch his mother weeping over what he knew to be the agent. That his mother loved the agent and Percy stole her from him had been his first jerk reaction to the situation, but he believed that, at least for now, he could scrap that notion. However, the trend of affairs within marriages in the noble families ran rampant. Marriages of convenience, not love. However, his mother wan not of a prestigious family, so this did not exactly apply. However, he could not help from thinking that his mother loved the agent, and he was the result of what should have been, but never was.
All things aside, he was conceived, and then the Pimpernel killed Chauvelin. Why? The timing of it all could not have been coincidence. Strange indeed…
Lucian growled in frustration and quickly shook his head; he already had a terrible headache, and his jumping to conclusions, making assumptions, and formulating conspiracies was certainly not helping it. Not to mention that mere speculation did nothing to discover the truth; there were too many gaps in what he knew to reasonably bridge the information into a single coherent and accurate story. There would be no more guesswork.
Lucian collapsed upon the bench once again. He was a mistake. Hell, he probably wasn't even wanted, not by Lord Blakeney, in the very least. A mistake, a child of passion, an illegitimate. He didn't ask for this. It wasn't fair…
"Lucian?"
The entire day had been more then taxing, and he no longer possessed the strength or the will to move; his body, his mind, and his soul were aching. The child's uncharacteristic stillness terrified him, and within moments, Percy had taken the lithe boy in his arms and held the slightly trembling wreck close to him. And the poor thing was a mess. The usually immaculate Lucian was disheveled and disarrayed, and he was deathly pale; even his eyes were glazed and terribly dilated, certainly not healthy in the least. The child could have walked through the Valley of Death and he would have come out in better shape then he was in now. And, Heavens, the boy was cold as ice, and his embrace tightened around the boy. "Lucian, speak to me, boy," Percy whispered softly as he pressed his lips against the child's ashen forehead.
Lucian's pale, unfocused eyes met Percy's clear blue ones and felt shame and pity well within him; shame for his actual lineage and the pain he had caused the baronet for it, and pity for his surrogate father's position. The pain he caused Percy must have been similar to the pain that he felt now, bitter betrayal and hopelessly lost because of it. Something within the pale, trembling boy broke and he buried his face in the baronet's coat and allowed himself to cry.
Percy was shocked that the stoic Lucian would act in such an unusual way; even when he was really hurting, the boy rarely displayed any emotion, choosing instead to bear his burden on his own. But that he would act like this…Lucian was so much more like Marguerite then he let on. "Hush, hush, my Luc. What is troubling you, my son?" Percy cooed softly, gently rocking the boy as he ran a hand through the boy's messy blonde hair.
Lucian whimpered slightly and clenched his hand around the lapel of Percy's deep red coat and mumbled something unintelligible into the fabric. The poor man…how much had it pained him to pretend that he was his son?
"Lucian, you poor boy," Percy whispered as he lifted the sobbing child's head up and looked into his father's pale yellow eyes, his thumbs gently running across the pale cheeks and wiping the tears away. "What's wrong?"
Lucian took a few deep breaths and managed to stop the tears. "Do I disappoint you, father?"
"What? Heavens no, Luc. Where did you get that idea?"
Lucian looked into the baronet's eyes and saw…what? Sympathy? Compassion? Yes, those were definitely there. But underneath that was the subtle hint of hurt and betrayal that was always present when they looked at each other. He was still causing the man that had raised him to suffer, and he could not find it within himself to hate him, but to pity him. "Because whenever you look at me, there is pain in your eyes that is not there when you look at anyone else." Pain. Always that pain…
"What?" Percy asked meekly, his breath catching in his chest. "I…Lucian, are you well? You're talking nonsense…"
Percy stopped suddenly as those usually so cold eyes filled with pity, and the boy gently stood up and kissed his forehead. "I am sorry for all the suffering that my existence has caused you, Lord Blakeney." Lucian whispered, and with that, he left the stunned and panicking Percy alone.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. Lucian dragged his feet through the manor. He was exhausted, and if he didn't get a chance to sleep within the next quarter hour, he was certain he would collapse where he stood. He should have hated Percy for hating him; rather, he could not find it in himself to despise the man any further, and could do little but pity him. And, oh, he hated it. It was so much easier to hate him…
It was neither of their faults in the end, really. Percy hated him because Marguerite's first son was not his. Lucian hated him because Percy never really treated him like a son. There was nothing that could be done to correct that, Lucian saw that now. It was not him, but their situation that made it impossible for them to love each other. Victims of circumstance. He actually preferred it when he had hated his adoptive father; his life was stable then. Not happy, but secure, and Lucian did love order; it gave him power, control over his life. He wandered through his perfectly ordered life ina perpetual hatred of the baronet based on assumptions. Bliss in ignorance indeed. Pity his eyes had to be opened to the truth; sympathy did not suit him, but Lucian could not help it.
He and the baronet suffered similar pain, similar betrayal, and he could hardly bear the anguish. How did Blakeney do it for so long? He couldn't help but admire the man for such. Nonetheless, he was certain that he would be unable to do likewise; the pain had to be alleviated as soon as possible, and he could lift both of their suffering simultaneously. One pain, one action; all he need dowas leavefor France. He would be in the country of his father, where he truly belonged, and Percy would be rid of his presence, the very reminder of his wife's infidelity. And when the guilt of paining the baronet was gone, he would be free to hate him as before; he still had his reasons to. As soon as he had what he needed, he would be off, and both he and Percy would be free to heal form those long years of pain.
Dragging his feet up the stairs and down the hall, he stumbled into his room and collapsed upon the bed and was soundly sleeping in a moment's time.
"Marguerite!"
The lovely woman was seated at her bureau, running a brush through her strawberry blonde hair when her husband burst into the room, slamming the door behind him. "Percy darling, what's wrong?" Marguerite asked quietly as she rose from the chair and approached the extremely tense baronet.
"Can you not control that son of your, Marguerite?" Percy snarled, causing the woman to retreat.
"What are you talking about, Percy?"
"You don't have a tight enough hold on that boy, and he has started to figure things out, if he doesn't know already!"
"Don't you dare blame me for that, Percy!" Marguerite snapped back in an attempt to defend herself. "He's an intelligent boy. I am surprised that he hadn't caught on earlier!"
"Oh, that's right," Percy snapped, his voice dripping in contempt. "The bastard is just like his father!"
"You forget that he is also my son, and I will not have you speaking about my Luc in this fashion!"
"I will not allow your child to destroy all I have worked for, Marguerite. I won't allow your infidelity to plague me anymore then it must!"
That did it. "Had you not pushed me out of your life, it would not have happened!" Marguerite shouted. How dare he strike her in such a manner?
"You dare blame me for that affair of yours, Marguerite? You should have been stronger! This was your mistake, your weakness, your passion, not mine. If you will remember, I kept my vows, you didn't. Take responsibility, woman!"
Marguerite sat on the bed and silently took all her husband said; he was absolutely right, and tears slowly filled her eyes. "I'm sorry, my love," she said quietly, her voice cracking as the tears fell from her blue eyes.
"Marguerite, you must listen to me," Percy said firmly as he took his wife in his arms. "He is figuring something out. You need to keep a closer eye on him, or we are going to have a terrific mess on our hands."
"Darling, what happened?"
Percy sighed in frustration. "He's getting broody. I don't like it. Everyday, I see more and more Chauvelin in him. The first one was bad enough, I will not risk having a second."
Marguerite snuggled against him and sighed in content. "I shall do what I can, dearest." Pausing momentarily to plant a kiss on her husband's lips, she quietly added, "I really am sorry, Percy."
"I know. Little point to discuss it. There is nothing to be done about it now. All we can do is focus on correcting that son of yours."
"Yes, of course.' Marguerite suddenly tensed, forgot to breathe. "Percy, do you remember Citizens Mercier and Coupeau from France?"
"What? Yes, of course. What of them?"
"They know about Lucian, Percy."
"What?" Percy yelled, quickly releasing the woman and staring at her in disbelief.
"They came here this afternoon and got one look at Luc and knew hewas Chauvelin's son."
"Oh Christ…" Percy sat in silence for a while and mulled this over, slowly managing to whisper, "And what is to happen when they tell?"
"They swore to keep it secret."
"And can we trust them?"
"Percy," Marguerite said softly as she wrapped her arms around his neck, "they kept your secret. They shall keep mine."
"Yes, of course," Percy sighed, gently kissing his lovely wife's neck. "Please, let us no longer speak of this."
Smiling slyly, Marguerite slid her hand under his coat and hooked her arm around his neck, kissing him passionately. "Then let us not speak at all, my love."
Complying with Marguerite's lead, Percy allowed her to pull him down with her, and the two lovers were soon lost in the love they possessed for each other.