Author's Note on Chapter 4: This chapter originally started out quite different. The car was really going to crash, and Marguerite and Andrew were going to get captured immediately. But it didn't flow properly and I scraped it. I mean, ex-Nazi's are more likely to shoot their victims instead of keeping them alive, so that became rather a dead-end. Fortunately, I had a slight revelation. Why fix what's not broken? No point at all, says I. So in the end, I stole a scene from the Baroness's original novel and ran with it. It worked then and I figured it would work now. And it was bloody fun to write the first part.

Author's Note on Character Ages: In The Scarlet Pimpernel, according to the Baroness, Percy was ~28-ish, Chauvelin between 45 and 49, and Marguerite ~25 (if I'm remembering correctly). However, because of the time frame of this AU, the ages are subsequently different. I realized that Chauvelin made the observation in Chapter 3 that the League were over draft age, and yeah, that was an error on my part. *hides* At the time I wrote it, I hadn't researched British Conscription during WWII. Mea culpa. I should know better than to write without researching.

Now I know that in 1939, British conscription encompassed men between the ages of 18 to 41, and by 1942, the maximum age had bumped to 51 and also included women aged 20-30 (unless they were married OR if they had children under the age of 14 living with them). There were exceptions to the rule of course (clergy, employed in vital industry, mental illness, blind, students...) but every member of the League would have actually been of conscription age, and I do apologize for the oversight. In my head, the story takes place starting in September 1949, which was when the Cannes Film Festival was held that year, and moving into January/February of 1950. I envisioned Chauvelin his late 50's (he would have to have been born ca. 1900 or earlier to have been drafted into WWI, though he could have enlisted at a younger age with a forged ID, perhaps even having been born as late as 1903 and wormed his way into a military unit), Percy in his mid/late 30's, and Marguerite in her early 30's but looking much younger thanks to her profession.

Author's Note on Future Chapters: Future chapters will very likely include characters from another Pimpernel novel, Sir Percy Hits Back. If you've never read it, you really should. It delves into Chauvelin's past in true Baroness style, and I'm going to borrow characters from it for this story, because I do love a couple of them. (If you have read it, you can probably guess the two I intend to use.)

~BD

Andrew hated the plan. It wasn't that he didn't trust Percy, but good God; he hated the plan! Percy's insane idea of protecting Marguerite was to save her, not stop Chauvelin before he got started! And for the life of him, Andrew couldn't make any sense in it, unless it was because Percy was trying so bloody hard to win Marguerite's love when she clearly hated him. It would have been easier if Percy had sent Holte to repair the vehicle damage wrought by Chauvelin's accomplices before Andrew and Marguerite even left for the Alps, but for some unfathomable reason, Percy actually wanted the car to wreck on the way to God only knew where.

Andrew could feel the way the axle shifted every time he hit a bump in the road. Inevitably, his hands would grip the wheel until his knuckles turned white and taut. Beside him, Marguerite was growing impatient with his slow speed, though she'd said nothing to him as of yet. Still, she could threaten him with death and he would refuse to drive faster – and quite honestly, death was what they were both threatened with at the moment, and she really had no idea of any of it! Fontebleu did want to film in the Alps...but his location was quite different than the address on the note Marguerite had received, and blast it all, if Percy had left that alone, too. Andrew just couldn't make sense of it.

"Zut alors," Marguerite sighed, resettling her coat around her shoulders. "Why must he wish to film all the way up here? The weather is getting worse by the second!"

Oh yes, the weather was truly horrendous, and Andrew darkly wondered if Percy had arranged that with the Almighty as well. He had enough bloody clout, it seemed. What had started as light, breezy flurries had turned into a steady snowfall. If it kept up, the roads would be too icy to keep driving, and probably within the hour. Andrew gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes at a curve ahead. He hoped, desperately and against all hope, that the bloody axel would hold until they reached the phony destination, at which point he could pretend to be just as confused as Marguerite, and suggest they stay the night wherever the road played out. If, of course, there was actually something at the end of the road.

Furthermore, regardless of what happened and where they ended up, he'd have to stay awake all night. There was no telling where Percy was, or any of the others, and certainly no telling where Chauvelin and his men were. Andrew had been watching the road behind him for some time, but he hadn't seen any car lights following him. He'd anticipated that, and it was this that bothered him more than anything else, really. He'd expected to be followed, and it didn't appear that they were being followed at all. Which meant whoever was behind this – Chauvelin and all his men – were cleverer than they let on.

The axle gave a slight pull and Andrew slowed to a crawl. Beside him, Marguerite clicked her tongue.

"We'll never arrive timely if you don't speed up a bit."

He decided not to lie, and replied cautiously, "Something is wrong with the car."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Surely not."

"I can feel it pulling on the road. It seems as though the axle is damaged, but I can't imagine how. I daren't go faster, I'm afraid. I intend to have someone inspect it as soon as we arrive."

Marguerite fell silent and Andrew re-concentrated his efforts on the snowy road ahead. It was growing darker by the second as well, though it was still only mid-afternoon.

After a few moments, when they had navigated safely around the curve, Marguerite opened the glove compartment and pulled out a map. It took her a few seconds, but she located their position faster than Andrew could have done, and she murmured, "There is a village up ahead, within another mile, I believe. I think it would be best if we stopped there until this storm passes. Fontbleu cannot chastise us for waiting the weather out."

Andrew hesitated. Regardless of what Percy wanted or didn't want, it was indeed foolish to keep driving. But would it be just as foolish to stop? What if Chauvelin had men in the village waiting for them? What if they had anticipated the weather?

However, his question was answered for him, for a mile further up the road, when the village came within sight, a man with a lantern flagged them down just before the first building.

Andrew came to a stop and hesitatingly rolled the window down, praying the man was not one of Chauvelin's spies. However, to his relief, the man spoke to him in gruff French.

"The pass is snowed under just ahead, monsieur. You'll have to stop here for the night. The inn is on the square. They still have rooms available."

Marguerite leaned over him and politely thanked the gentleman, and Andrew couldn't help but smile wryly. His female co-star really thought the man was French, but he knew damned well it was actually Bathurst, who had a scar on his cheek that couldn't be concealed by the scarf or hat he was wearing. It was reflected in weird relief by the flickering lantern and falling snow.

"Merci, Monsieur," Andrew replied, giving his friend a pointed look.

Bathurst returned it with a curt nod and turned to go back inside the building behind him.

Andrew rolled the window back up, and Marguerite shivered violently next to him. "Brrrrr! Mon Dieu, but it is freezing! Let us hurry, non?"

Andrew agreed and put the car back in gear, but just the same, he couldn't help but wonder what on earth Percy was up to now. Because clearly, the plan had changed.

Marguerite surveyed the tiny room critically. Granted, it was clean, but it was also incredibly small. The bed was jammed against the wall and the curtains on the window looked as though they had been sewn before the first war. The radiator was warm, at least, but the dresser was scuffed and the bathroom narrow and tight; she reminded herself more than once that it was only for a few nights at the very most. Provided that the storm blew over and the snow on the pass melted by the end of the week, of course. Fontbleu was crazy if he thought they could film in this weather!

Well, what mattered now was getting something to eat. Andrew had mentioned something about finding out if they could eat at the inn, or if they would have to brave the weather to cross the square to a restaurant. It would be best to venture downstairs and wait on him.

She glanced once in the little circular mirror on the wall. She looked pale. There was little chance of her being recognized, for at the moment she looked nothing like the famous movie star, and every bit the little girl she'd been in the thirties, wearing a non-descript gray dress with her hair down in wavy curls, pinned back to one side with a barrette, instead of swept up and styled as it normally was. Of course, sometimes she felt a wave of fatigue that had nothing to do with her exhausting schedule and everything to do with the fact that she'd grown up an orphan after her parents' deaths, under the care of her dear older brother. She had become involved in the theatre during her childhood because they'd needed the money. Because Armand couldn't make enough even with the three jobs he was trying to hold down while raising her. When she was discovered by a film director at the age of 16, she had leapt at the chance to move up in the industry – Armand had encouraged her because he loved her, and he'd stayed by her side the entire while, or at least until the war seemed utterly inevitable. Then he had left her to join the French Resistance, and she had never heard another word from him or about him. It was as though he had vanished into thin air, and she knew deep down that he must have been killed or captured. A small part of her desperately hoped that maybe, perhaps, one day, he would return to her, for he was all she'd ever had, and once he had disappeared, she'd had no one left. She didn't trust those who had been her friends before the war, because of Chauvelin, and maybe that was what made Chauvelin's betrayal so much more difficult to process, because she had not had Armand to lean on for support. Chauvelin had stabbed her in the back as he had likely done countless others, and Marguerite had had no one to rely upon after the fact.

She sighed heavily as she left her room, moved down the quiet hall, and stopped on the landing. She could see over the railing into the cozy downstairs of the little country inn: a roaring fire was blazing in the hearth, snow was falling thickly outside the lead-glass windows, and the squat owner was nowhere in sight. However, to her utter horror, there was another person in the room, and he was sitting at a table by the fire, making notes on a scrap of paper.

The very devil she had just been mulling over!

Marguerite barely stifled a gasp by pressing her palm tight to her mouth; she shrank back into the shadows silently, hiding behind a large potted fir tree that was situated in the corner of the landing. God in heaven, what should she do? She had to find Andrew; they had to leave this place immediately!

No – no, there was no way to leave, the roads were snowed under! Panic bubbled up within her chest so rapidly she thought she would faint from sheer dizziness. She slid slightly down the wall, hidden further from sight from downstairs. She and Andrew would be unable to leave their rooms! Chauvelin knew Andrew was playing her opposite because he had come to the studio that one afternoon, and if he saw Andrew here in this mountain inn, he would know Marguerite was nearby. But why on earth was Chauvelin here at all? She tried to rack her brain for the answer, but nothing came to her, for she was so shocked by his appearance that she had been reduced to near tears and hysterics. He must be after her; that was the only explanation, for he had randomly appeared at filming a couple of months ago, apparently looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel, of all things. That must have been his cover, something to trick her. He was really just trying to get near her to kill her. ...Or perhaps he was really looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel? But if that were the case, why would he think the man would be here, of all places? That made no sense whatsoever; why would the Scarlet Pimpernel be in a snowed-in mountain village in the French Alps? No. He was really after her, not the mysterious Pimpernel. He could have obtained the filming schedule from anyone involved in the production of The Invisible Savior, any staff member who may have left the information lying about the studios.

The door of the inn swung open in a blast of cold air and wind and snow, and the chill traveled all the way to the landing. For this, she was somewhat grateful; the frigid air kept her from fainting and even cleared her head some. She did not remove her hand from her mouth, lest she still feel the urge to scream, but she glanced through the fir's branches in utter terror to see if it were Andrew who had entered and if the game was up.

But no – Marguerite's eyes widened. She couldn't imagine that she could have been any more shocked than moments before, when she had seen Chauvelin seated downstairs. But to see Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet enter the room was utterly mind-boggling. Perhaps the air was thin up in the mountains and she was hallucinating? God, she certainly hoped so. Her razor-sharp, famous wit had completely failed her this evening; she could formulate no reason for either man being in this village or this inn at the same time she was.

Chauvelin did not look up when the door opened, but merely continued his silent perusal of his papers. Sir Percy, however, glanced once about the room, then swept off his great coat and hung it on one of several pegs by the door, loosened his scarf, and strolled across the room like the gigantic lout he was.

"Blasted cold out, innit?" he drawled, not stopping until he reached the fire and turned to warm his backside, his hands twisted behind him towards the heat.

The effect of his voice upon Chauvelin, Marguerite noticed, was instantaneous and extremely odd. In fact, she had never seen Chauvelin, who was a master at appearing cool and collected at all times, look so incredibly surprised, furious, or shocked. He looked just as shocked as Marguerite felt, and she wondered why on earth he should be surprised. Certainly he didn't know Blakeney – the two men moved in very different circles, and Chauvelin did not like Brits. Marguerite remembered that much from when they had been friends before the war; he had complained of the British often enough in her salon, during her parties, and they'd all had a laugh about how different the French and British were back then.

"You!" Chauvelin finally spat, his voice betraying his fury.

Blakeney looked confused. "Me? I say, have we, er...met before, sir? You don't look familiar, but then, my memory is rather abysmal."

Well, that much was the truth, Marguerite thought.

"Enough!" Chauvelin rose to his feet swiftly, tucking his papers inside the jacket of his suit. "What do you want? Why are you here?" It was a demanding voice, the sort of voice one would use in a courtroom against someone on the stand.

Blakeney said nothing for a moment, and then he laughed that awful laugh – that quiet, inane laugh Marguerite so detested. She felt her raw nerves stretch tighter. Chauvelin, apparently, disliked the sound as well, for his hands balled into fists at his sides, as though he would strike Blakeney if he could. But Blakeney was a good head or so taller than Chauvelin, and perhaps that was why the man held back.

"I only desired to get warm, sir. Saw the fire through the window! 'Tis deathly cold out. Zooks, didn't I already say that? Apologies!" He turned his back on Chauvelin to face the fire, warming his hands and face. "I can't get over the mountain, don't you know. No one can, apparently. I was going skiing this weekend, but I'm afraid that's out of the question for a few days. Of course, once the storm stops, there should be a few good feet of fresh powder up there, which should be marvelous fun. Don't you agree? I do love a good slope."

Were it not for the gravity of the situation, Marguerite would have laughed vindictively at Chauvelin's awful, hateful expression. His face was growing redder by the second; he looked like a teakettle that had been left on the stove too long, or a thermometer that had been placed in boiling liquid and the mercury was rising rapidly, ready to break the glass.

"You are not in the French Alps to go skiing, Blakeney, and we both know it!" he snarled.

Blakeney, God bless him, looked dumbfounded, and said in a confused voice, "Oh? Then what I am here for?"

Of course, it couldn't possibly be too difficult for him to be dumbfounded, for he really was a moron, Marguerite thought. But regardless of how she felt about him, she liked him marginally more than Chauvelin, and she wouldn't want him to fall into whatever trap Chauvelin was laying for her or the Scarlet Pimpernel. Blakeney was merely an innocent bystander, after all. He had never stabbed her in the back; he was only irritating and stupid.

Chauvelin's voice dropped to a hissing whisper. "I saw you that day. And I know why you were there!"

Blakeney's expression was unreadable; with his back to the fire, the shadows played tricks across his face that Marguerite couldn't make out.

And then Chauvelin withdrew something from his pocket – something quite small. A tiny scrap of old, dirty paper. He held it up between two fingers, and to Marguerite's further surprise, Blakeney seemed to find this odd behavior incredibly amusing, for he burst out laughing.

Not that inane laugh she loathed, either. A very different sort of laugh. A ringing, deep laugh that made her draw back slightly. It was entirely out of place. It was confusing and strange. It wasn't like him at all; it was a laugh that belonged to someone who was confident and intelligent, who commanded the world at his fingertips, rather than stumbled up the stairs.

After a few moments, the laughter subsided and Blakeney snorted, "Good God, how diverting! What on earth is that, man?"

"You know damned well what it is!" Chauvelin's voice rose slightly in his anger.

Blakeney pulled out a cigarette case from within his trouser pocket and opened it, withdrew a cig, and closed the case with a snap. After he'd lit up and exhaled, he moved away from the fire and behind Chauvelin, to the center of the room, as though meandering about how that he was warm. "I do apologize if I've upset you," he said conversationally, glancing at the table Chauvelin had been using, and then moving towards it. "But I really am afraid I'm only a tourist here for the ski season. You must have me confused with someone else."

Chauvelin turned towards the fire, presumably to calm his temper before continuing with the conversation, though Marguerite could tell he was still absolutely furious. With his back turned, he didn't notice Blakeney pick up and examine the cigarette case Chauvelin had left on the table while working on his secret papers.

Marguerite only just did catch it – a slight of hand, so quick that it was nearly impossible to notice. She blinked. Where on earth had someone as slow and dim-witted as Blakeney learned such a trick? She had seen it many times in the theatre – magicians and fraudsters used it frequently in their stage shows. He had slipped a cigarette in the case and slipped several out, placing them in his pocket, and then before she quite realized it, he had moved on around the back of the chair and towards the windows across the front of the inn.

Chauvelin, still facing the fire, spoke again, and his voice was as cold as ice. "I swore then," he growled, "that I would make you pay for your insolence, Blakeney. I will not fail."

"Ah?" Blakeney responded blandly, still gazing out of the window at the snow. "Failure is certainly depressing, isn't it?"

Chauvelin swiveled from the fire, grabbed his own cigarette case and extracted one, lighting it sharply and taking a long drag from it, as though he needed the drug to get him through the conversation (which he probably did). "And you may as well know, Blakeney, that as for St. Just..."

Marguerite inhaled sharply through her fingers, but before she could hear just what Chauvelin was planning for her, he started coughing furiously.

Her eyes snapped back to Blakeney – he was still standing by the window, with his back towards the stairs. He turned just slightly, just enough for her to catch his profile. The smallest smirk tugged the corner of his lips upward, and his blue eyes flashed with amusement. Chauvelin continued to cough, most violently, and Blakeney turned, took his coat from the peg without any sort of notion that he was in a hurry, slipped it on, saluted the Frenchman with a sarcastic expression, and disappeared out of the door and into the cold, snowy night.

Chauvelin remained in the center of the room, coughing terribly, until he dropped to all fours. The cigarette was just in danger of catching the rug on fire when the owner of the inn came bustling in the room, yelled an expletive, grabbed the thing before it burned his business down, threw it in the fire, and yelled for his wife to bring some water for the poor man out front.

Marguerite, terrified and confused, suddenly found her feet, pushed herself up the wall, and hurried silently back to her room. She had to find Andrew, and quickly. They had to get out of here, if such a thing was possible. Chauvelin very likely wanted her dead, because he still remembered that she alone knew the truth about his allegiances. But where in heaven Blakeney fit into the story was an utter mystery; it just didn't make sense. She shut the door behind her, locked it, and sank onto the bed. The mattress creaked beneath her and she rested her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands.

She didn't have much chance to sort through her thoughts, however. Less than two minutes later, a knock on her door made her jump terribly; she sat up and stared at it in fear. Fortunately, to her relief, Andrew's voice echoed from the other side, and she visible sagged.

"Mademoiselle? We will have to cross the street to the restaurant to get something to eat. The owner of the inn is quite busy trying to help a poor fellow that got choked, I'm afraid."

As fast as lightening, Marguerite jumped up and grabbed her coat and scarf, and was half into them as she threw the door open. "I am starved," she said quickly, pulling the other sleeve on. "Are you ready, Andrew?"

Andrew look surprised at her quick response, but nodded and offered his arm. "Yes, of course."

If he was surprised by her quick response, it was nothing to how surprised he seemed as she practically dragged him downstairs. She glanced hurriedly around the room where Blakeney and Chauvelin had just had their brief encounter, but it was empty. She could hear distant coughing in a back room, and she tightened her scarf as Andrew held the door open. The cold air whipped her in the face but she ignored it, and plunged into the icy night, with Andrew right behind her.

The walk across the square was brutal, and she was incredibly thankful to stumble into the dark, empty, candlelit restaurant. A waiter sat them at a table in a corner and went to fetch menus. Marguerite sighed as she looked about, but they appeared to be the only customers.

And then suddenly, before she could make some mundane comment, a grating voice broke the silence of the room.

"Ffoulkes! Good God, man, what a coincidence to find you here in the middle of a snowstorm!"

Marguerite tensed and looked up to see Blakeney towering over their table, his hands loose in his trouser pockets and his sweater close-fitting, showing off his musculature. She jerked her eyes away, determined not to stare at him.

He seemed to only just notice her, but immediately bowed politely over the table and added, "Ah! Mademoiselle St. Just! You as well, hm? Is Fontbleu filming in this storm? What rotten luck, eh? I'd hate to have to film out in this mess!"

Andrew answered for her, his voice slightly terse. "He was planning to film further up the mountain, but unfortunately, the pass is closed under."

"Ah yes, the wretched pass! I was up this way for a bit of skiing, myself – well, that's out of the question for another day or so too, isn't it? But at least the storm will drop some fresh powder up there," Blakeney said cheerfully. "I say; you wouldn't mind if I join in dinner, would you? Came over by myself this time. Couldn't find anyone to join me. Hate to eat alone, don't you know." He turned to find the waiter and flagged the man down. "Bon-sewer, my good man! Another place-setting here?"

Though his French was absolutely horrid, Marguerite found she didn't mind Blakeney's joining them nearly as much as she would have a few months prior; in fact, if he sat with them, his huge frame would block her smaller one from view of the door, and perhaps any of Chauvelin's men would think twice before interrupting them if they only saw Blakeney and Andrew.

Still, his presence left her fishing for conversation. Glancing between the two men, she asked tightly, "How do you know each other, if I may ask?"

"Oh, Andy and I were in school together," Blakeney replied brightly, taking menus from the waiter and passing them around. Then he added, "Your best burgundy, my good man!"

The waiter, who clearly spoke just French, started to complain that he did not understand Blakeney, and Marguerite spoke up swiftly before the man could get started on a tirade about the English. "Votre meilleur Bourgogne, se il vous plaît."

The waiter looked relieved at her interference and his attitude changed completely. He nodded politely to her and thanked her.

Blakeney beamed, and before the man could leave, he said, "Oh, excellent, mademoiselle! Would you let him know to put the dinner and the wine on my tab? I'll pay for everything this evening, my treat."

Marguerite glared at him for using her as a translator, but considering he knew absolutely no French whatsoever (or what little he did know, he couldn't remotely pronounce), she had little choice but to do as he asked. Drawing a deep breath and keeping her back rigid and her jaw straight, she looked at the waiter and added, while gesturing towards Blakeney, "Ce monsieur va payer pour nos repas et le vin."

The waiter bowed politely and advised Marguerite that he would return momentarily with the wine, and that he would take their orders then. She breathed a long sigh as he bustled off.

Then Blakeney was blathering again. "I must say; I do wish I could speak French as well as Mademoiselle St. Just! Confounded language is so bloody confusing! No offense, of course," he added quickly, smiling at her. "I just never got the hang of it!"

She scowled at him stonily; across from her, Andrew had buried himself behind a menu.

Blakeney looked at her curiously. "You don't seem yourself tonight. Are you well?"

"I am tired." She kept her voice clipped and curt. "And a bit out of sorts, sir."

That was true enough. There was no reason to mention Chauvelin. Neither of these men knew anything about her past, about the war and the Jewish families that had perished at her hand, and Andrew likely wouldn't know who Chauvelin was at all. More unnerving was Blakeney's unknown connection to Chauvelin, and that troubled her slightly. She didn't want to give him any information if she could help it. Besides, what did he know of her true self? He had only ever seen her on the screen, at a dinner party, at the Cannes Film Festival in September, and occasionally during the current filming. He knew nothing of her.

"You are...er...attired a bit differently, as well," Blakeney noted, his eyes flickering towards her simple dress.

She bit her tongue to keep from snapping something nasty. "I do not always dress in fancy gowns and high heels, monsieur. Contrary to popular belief, I prefer a rather simple way of life."

"Oh?" Blakeney's brow furrowed slightly. "You don't enjoy the finer things of life?"

Marguerite gritted her teeth. "I did not say that. I said I prefer a simple way of life. My childhood and the war, sir, taught me to be frugal."

She hated herself the moment she said it. She did not want Blakeney or even Andrew to know how hard her life had been in the 1930's, or how devastated she had been to lose Armand, or how upset she had been when she'd learned of Chauvelin's betrayal.

So she picked up her menu and went on coolly, "I suppose, Monsieur Blakeney, that you have never had to experience frugalness in your entire life. But some of us were not born wealthy, you know."

Blakeney's lips twitched; Andrew buried himself further behind his menu.

"Actually, mademoiselle, I think the dress suits you well. I prefer it to your usual, if I may say so."

"Oh?" Her lips twisted sarcastically. "I thought you preferred a lady in a strapless gown so you could gawk at her."

Blakeney opened his mouth to respond, but thank God the waiter returned at that moment with the wine, and Marguerite was able to ignore her two dinner companions for a bit. However, once their orders were taken and the waiter had returned to the kitchen, she found she did not want to continue the conversation at all, and her eyes drifted nervously towards the windows. Had Chauvelin recovered from the odd, fake cigarette Blakeney had switched on him? What if he came in the door and saw Blakeney? He would surely approach the man, and then he would see her.

Blakeney's grating voice rang in her ear again. "Here, drink this. It should help. You look as though you had a wretched headache."

She didn't want to do what he'd told her, for the simple fact that he was the one who had made the suggestion, but wine would help her headache, and so she began to sip on it slowly, grimacing at the fact that he kept watching her.

"Where are you staying, Blakeney?" Andrew asked suddenly. His arms were crossed and he was staring intently at the candle on the table. For some reason, he looked highly irritated. Perhaps he didn't much care for Blakeney's idiocy either, Marguerite thought dryly. It wouldn't surprise her; Andrew was an intelligent sort, and Blakeney was simply a dunce.

"Oh, the little inn across the way. Quaint little place, but cozy enough. I ran into a rather odd fellow inside there, just before dinner – a little Frenchman all in black, but he spoke English, don't you know! I think he must have had me confused with someone else."

If Blakeney's encounter with Chauvelin had struck Marguerite as strange, Andrew's reaction to this blasé remark was even stranger. His face visibly paled and his eyes snapped from the candle to Blakeney.

"What? Who was it?"

"I'm sure I've no idea!" Blakeney laughed softly, and Marguerite gripped her wine glass more tightly as he went on, "Perhaps he was mad. I've never met anyone who was mad, but he was positively raving at me! Strange folks, the French."

"I am French," Marguerite reminded him icily.

Blakeney chuckled. "Present company excluded, of course!"

Marguerite did not respond, but inhaled sharply and looked away. He was truly insufferable! She wished he were not here!

Andrew spoke up again, though rather hesitatingly. "If there is a madman on the loose," he said, eyeing Blakeney carefully, "then perhaps it would be best if Marguerite stayed elsewhere, tonight. What if he is staying in the same inn we all are?"

"Oh, I'm sure we are all safe enough," Blakeney said, his voice gratingly cheerful. "We will be there too, remember? And besides, if he is mad, hopefully the inn keeper will throw him out into the cold, say wot?" He laughed at this idea, and Marguerite was immensely grateful that the waiter appeared at that moment with their food.

Fortunately the meal was relatively quiet – she supposed Blakeney could talk with his mouth full, but even he had more social grace and propriety than that, and he was thankfully silent. As for herself, Marguerite merely picked at her dinner. The more she thought of Chauvelin, here in this little mountain town, the more her stomach twisted in fear and confusion. She grew less and less hungry; the food on her plate became increasingly nauseating even to look at, and she finally finished off her wine. As soon as she'd drained it, she half-heartedly wished Blakeney would offer to pour her another glass. Her eyes continuously glanced towards the door, but no one else entered, and outside, the sound of the storm grew louder and louder, so that by the end of their meal, it was positively howling.

As neither Blakeney nor Andrew seemed to be in a mood to talk any more, Marguerite was hardly surprised that Andrew stiffly asked Blakeney to accompany them back to the inn so they could get a good night's sleep, and Blakeney readily agreed.

She couldn't imagine a more random assortment of people imaginable – Sir Percival Blakeney, Idiot; Andrew Ffoukles, budding actor; the famous Marguerite St. Just; the evil Armand Chauvelin, Former Nazi Spy. It made her brain hurt to even think about how strange the situation was – even the physical sting of the whipping snow and ice outside did little to take her mind off of the situation. It wasn't until she was upstairs in the inn did she realize she had not seen Chauvelin downstairs by the fire, nor anywhere else. Blakeney and Andrew were bidding her good night, and adding that she should come for them if she needed them for any reason.

Without warning, she suddenly discovered she was alone in her small room, with the sound of the wind howling around the window, obscuring it with heavy flakes so that she couldn't even see the restaurant across the square. She shivered and turned to the bed. She needed sleep, and didn't much expect to get much tonight – there was too much on her mind and the wind was too loud.

But no sooner had she turned the blankets back and reached to unfasten her suitcase did a hand clamp over her mouth, muffling what would have been a scream.

Someone had been in the room with her, in the shadows, and she hadn't noticed.