Author's Notes:

Note #1: My deepest apologies for the delay in this chapter. I quit my job in May. I slaved at that job for over a decade, ever since I graduated college, and while the pay and benefits were great, the stress was unbelievable. Never mind what I did; suffice to say it was a corporate job in which management and customers were never satisfied, nor did management had no clue what was going on "in the trenches". I had reached the point where I was having anxiety attacks and I absolutely dreaded going to work. I loathed answering the phone, and I hated dealing with coworkers who didn't understand me because I'm not a conformist. Despite that, I managed to leave the company on good terms, and I took three months off over the summer.

I know what you're thinking: "Why didn't you write?!" Well, being in a corporate cubicle ant farm for 10 years sucks a lot of creativity from your brain. During those three months I took off, I helped my mom and spent time with my kitties, I worked in my vegetable garden and went to the beach, and my brain purged 10 years of deadness. I felt as though I'd been let out of prison - that's how bad my job had been. In August, I returned to school to work on my third BA (History). My plans are to work on my Masters next, hopefully in Museum Studies. I may not find a job in that field, but anything is better than where I was. Writing is slowly coming back to me, but with a full load of upper level history classes this semester, I'm also having to write 7 papers, 10-20 pages each. Plus I have to read a lot of books. So thanks for bearing with me! I know I have multiple chapter stories in the works, and I hope I can finish some of them.

Note #2: I had a few people ask me if Percy was angry in the last chapter. Actually, he was not angry; he was merely acting. In fact, in my head, he was quite excited to be having a verbal spat of epic proportions with Marguerite. It got his blood going, you could say. But since the chapter was from Marguerite's perspective, I couldn't easily portray his excitement, and Marguerite saw his anger. This chapter is from Percy's perspective however, which was fun to write because I haven't written from his point of view recently.

Note #3: Warning: Character Death and Emotional Angst

The Invisible Savior

Nothing was going according to plan, and he hated that. He hadn't had a plan go awry since February of 1945, and it was demmed unpleasant. Initially, when Chauvelin and his men had tried to get through the trapdoor, his stomach had twisted in fear at the thought of Fleurette. He knew Tony would get to her as soon as possible, but he'd never wanted her to see her father ever again, regardless if she could stand up to the man. To make matters worse, he was more disturbed that the tunnel had been discovered. True, the war was over...but it had been a useful secret just the same. He trusted Fleurette and her husband, though – neither had told Chauvelin where the entrance was. Chauvelin must have found the tunnel without their help. He'd likely combed the cabin from top to bottom in fury at having Marguerite slip through his fingers and into Blakeney's hands.

Blakeney shifted gears by instinct, his mind flying as fast as the car he was driving, trying to decide what to do next. Should he proceed with the original plan (except that he was now Marguerite's guide instead of Tony)? Or should he change plans completely?

No... he didn't have the necessary time to change plans; the blizzard would make it next to impossible to get new orders to his men, who were scattered throughout the French Alps. And then there was Chauvelin, mercilessly following him. Percy had to admit; he detested the idea of killing anyone, but perhaps this was one of those few times to make an exception. His mouth turned down as he thought about it. He was a better shot than Chauvelin, that much was certain, but madmen were incredibly dangerous, and there was no telling what Chauvelin would do next.

The car fishtailed slightly as he took a curve a bit too fast, and Marguerite instinctively gripped the dash and snapped out in obvious alarm: "Slow down, damn it all, before you kill us both!"

His mouth twitched back into a small smile. God, but she did have a way of igniting his blood when she argued with him. "I dare not slow down," he said, as cheerfully as he could muster, "or we'll both be captured. Does mademoiselle not trust my driving?"

"At the moment, I'm not sure whom to trust on anything! I've half a mind to hit you again!"

She sounded infuriated. He couldn't quite blame her; he'd hidden a lot of information from her. She had every right to hate him, and that thought bothered him more than he wished to admit. In fact, she had more right to hate him than even she knew - and that thought bothered him a lot.

Instead, he replied, "I'd prefer you didn't; would make driving terribly difficult."

There was a long silence – he drove at least another half kilometer before she muttered angrily and abruptly, "How long have you been the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

He sighed. This wasn't how he'd wanted to tell her the story. He had wanted to tell her in a private location, where the weather was more pleasant and they weren't bloody well freezing or being pursued by a murderer, but he was out of options where that was concerned. He might as well tell her now, while they were driving. It would take his mind off Chauvelin, and he needed a distraction from the gnawing worry.

"Since the thirties, when Hitler was coming to power. It was easy back then – sneaking Jews out of Germany and into Belgium or England. But then Hitler started invading other countries, and before I knew it, the entire thing was blown completely out of proportion. I couldn't stop though." His gut wrenched slightly at the thought of how many had died. He had known back then that he couldn't save everyone, but it was still difficult. It made him wonder if he had a God-complex...picking and choosing the ones to save. But he knew he had to save those he could, else all would die in genocide.

He went on quietly, "What had they done to deserve death? Nothing. So we kept at it, myself and nineteen others. We lost two in number during the war to deflection, then gained a few more who were refugees and wanted to help. The war just seemed to drag on and on... it's a wonder, really, that we didn't lose more. And then, when the war ended, we didn't stop. I suppose we've been doing it so long now, that it was impossible to hang it up and go back to England. So we've been helping some of the families and children relocate and start new lives. There are still Nazi officials on the loose, after all. And still many who haven't found their relatives, if their relatives are alive. In most cases, they aren't, but we still try to help. And, a few that are still being sought. Like yourself."

"It would be better," she whispered, "to let Chauvelin have me. That would free you to save someone else, more deserving. I am a murderer."

"How do you know you killed anyone?"

"That's what everyone keeps telling me, and I'm sick of hearing it," she snarled, her fingers curling into fists.

They were coming to a tunnel. He said nothing in response until they were well within; then he stopped the car in the semi-darkness and looked at her. Quietly, he said, "You sought to save them, not kill them. There is a difference, Margot, between trying to save someone and the plan falling apart because you did not know Chauvelin was working for Germany. Nor did you deliberately tell Chauvelin because you knew he would arrest them and turn them over to the authorities. I know you were unaware of his true allegiance and you acted out of love for another human being, rather than hatred."

Instead of answering him, she said shortly, "Why are we stopped?"

He opened the door, walked briskly around the car, and opened hers. She stared at him incredulously, and he smiled and said, "We have to divert Chauvelin. Come on."

She frowned, but got out of the car. The coat he had given her in the underground tunnel was too big for her, but she pulled it tightly around her and looked about the dark tunnel. When he started walking towards the side of the underpass, she followed him, though she did look back at the still-running car a couple of times in confusion.

Percy ignored her and knocked four times on a service door. It opened immediately and Wallescourt stepped out, rubbing his gloved hands together. He took one look at Blakeney and Marguerite and his mouth fell open.

"Where the bloody hell is Tony?" he blurted.

"The plan changed a bit. Chauvelin found the tunnel in the cabin. Tony's on his way back to Fleurette. Chauvelin is likely pursuing us. Your part of the plan is unchanged, but I will be taking Marguerite St. Just from here."

Wallescourt looked horrified, but didn't argue. Instead, he hurried to the car, got in, and immediately continued driving.

Marguerite opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but Percy forestalled her by guiding her into the service door. He locked it behind them, and picked up the lantern Wallescourt had left on a peg.

"Don't worry about him. He's a trained mechanic. He raced cars professionally. He's going to crash it off the side of the mountain to fool Chauvelin. Don't worry. He'll survive. He always does."

"But that's insane!" She looking terrified at the very idea.

"He's done it at least five times before, if my memory serves correctly." Percy started edging down the tight service tunnel until he came to an opened manhole that led downward. Turning back to Marguerite (who looked still looked horrified), he said, "We can do this one of two ways. I can go down first and guide you, so you don't slip on the ladder... or you can go down first so I don't have the temptation of looking up your dress."

In the light of the lantern, her cheeks took a tinge of pink that had nothing to do with the cold. "I'll go first," she said icily.

Percy bowed politely and stepped out of the way, far too amused at her antics to chastise her for being silly. She swung herself down into the manhole and took the rungs one at a time; Percy began following her as soon as she was far enough down. He closed the manhole cover behind him and latched it, and when he reached the bottom he flashed the lantern down another tunnel and began to walk.

"All of these tunnels..." she muttered behind him. "How many of them do you have?"

"Too many to count. I have the maps back at my estate outside of London in case we need them, but we all have them memorized."

She said nothing to this, and to his consternation, they walked in silence for at least an hour. He daren't say anything to her, not knowing her mood or what would irritate her, but surely she had more questions? If he were in her place, God knows he would have hundreds of questions. Yet Marguerite remained silent, and worry gnawed at his stomach in a way it hadn't before.

Eventually they reached their destination, and Percy opened another manhole cover - this one much closer to their heads than the last, and not involving any ladder.

"Wait here a moment. Let me make certain it is safe," he whispered.

Her eyes flashed at him in annoyance, but he ignored the way the simple glare made his heart beat faster, and instead hoisted himself up out of the hole, praying there were none of Chauvelin's men waiting on the outside.

To his relief, he saw a white, snowy landscape beyond the grove of little fir trees where the tunnel entrance was located, and snugly perched on the side of the mountain, a small but comfortable chalet. Percy signed and lowered himself back in the hole.

"It appears safe. I'm going to lift you out, and you are to walk quickly to the house you'll see on the side of mountain to your left. Knock four times on the door, wait exactly ten seconds, and knock once more. A gentleman will open it and let you in. Tell him I will be there momentarily."

Marguerite looked as though she were struggling to decide whether she wished to follow his instructions or not. After a moment, she nodded curtly, and he wrapped his hands around her waist to help her out of the tunnel.

She was slender and easy to lift; his muscles tensed as he shifted her upward. Try as he might to keep a separation between their bodies, it was still hard. Even with coats, he imagined he could feel the warmth of her body, and the thought made him sweat slightly beneath his collar. He felt her squirm as she grasped the icy edge of the cover and pull herself into the light dusting of snow (the firs kept most of the snow off the ground), and Percy reluctantly let go and climbed out after her.

She was already hurrying towards the house as he replaced the cover and began disguising it with snow and branches, and she was inside before he had a chance to start covering footprints effectively.

Several minutes later, satisfied with his job, he ducked into the house, now curious to see how Marguerite was dealing with the occupant.

She was sitting at a table by the fire, but she was also white as a sheet. The owner of the cottage, however, turned and gave Percy a jovial smile, hurried over, and kissed both his cheeks without invitation.

"It is good to see you, Herr Blakeney," he said cheerfully. "And where is Lucifer?"

"Pursuing us, as usual."

"You would do best to shoot him and be done with it," the man responded firmly, before turning back to Marguerite. "I was just telling your young refugee that I was also a refugee once!"

Percy gave him a thin smile. Yes, he knew Yosef Breitenbach had been a refugee – he had been the one to help the man escape the Nazis, after all. However, how Marguerite would react to being in the presence of a German Jew, he had no idea.

To his surprise, she said politely, "Monsieur Breitenbach has been most kind while you were outside. I am very glad," she added, speaking directly to Yosef, "that you survived the war. But I fear I am putting your life in a great deal of danger. Surely Chauvelin would kill you if he met you."

"It is no matter," Yosef replied carelessly. "It is not the first time I have been face to face with devils and demons. I have worked for Herr Blakeney since 1943, and I do what I can to help."

"But helping places you in a great deal of danger!"

"Life is, by general rule, dangerous. And I would rather help than be a coward."

"I am worth your life, monsieur." Her voice was bitter.

Percy decided it was high time to interrupt. "Herr Breitenbach has a special skill," he said, moving to the fire to warm his hands briefly. "You'll notice his appearance, I expect?"

Breitenbach grinned, despite Marguerite's frown. "It helps that my hair is of a light color, and my eyes are blue. My mother was German, you see. I utilize her maiden name when I wish to avoid conflict – Schapp. I speak perfect German, and Blakeney forged me German papers. Many is the time those got me out of a scrape!"

"That is beside the point," she answered curtly.

Percy interrupted again. "Fascinating as your stories are, we do have a most pressing situation, Herr Breitenbach."

"So I hear." He sounded unperturbed. "And not knowing where Chauvelin and his men are, it is best to hide you both quickly. I can take care of myself, remember."

"I remember," Percy said quietly. The man was quite skilled – yes, he had a golden tongue and could pretend to be anyone, from a Swiss mountain man to a French farmer to a German factory worker, depending on the situation. And had, many a time.

"In that case, it is right where it was before. I will stay down here in case they come up during the next few minutes. That way, they will not suspect the upstairs."

Percy nodded. He remembered that, too. "Margot, if you'll come with me."

Without waiting to see if she followed, he started up the stairs. Behind him, she thanked Yosef for his kindness and started up the stairs after him. He waited at the landing, smiled slightly at the glittering spark in her eyes, and led her down the narrow hall to a small bedroom.

"The house is built into the side of the mountain," he explained, for the sake of simply talking, because he couldn't stand the silence between them any longer. He bent down against the rear wall and ran his fingers along the thick baseboard. "It was built specifically for this purpose." After a couple of seconds, he found the hidden latch and pulled the board out. The space was tight – barely 10 inches in height – and about four feet in length. "Time is of the essence. Ladies first."

She was staring at the space as though he had lost his mind. "But how am I supposed to crawl through? It is too small. And if it is too small for me, it is surely too small for you."

"You have to lie on your back and shimmy through. One leg at a time, then your torso."

She inhaled sharply, glared at him, but as gracefully as possible, sat on the floor, tucked her skirt in around her, and lay down on her back to shift into the hole. As soon as she was out of sight, he did the same, the wall scraping his chest as it always did if he entered this hidden room. Once he was inside, he pulled the baseboard back into place from behind, and locked it into place.

The hidden room was pitch black. Percy himself had designed it, and thus knew where everything was at – his fingers skated up the wall until he found a torch on a shelf, and flipped it on. He flashed it around, finding the bed where it had always been, a night table wedged against it, a small cabinet of food, and through a tight doorway at the far end of the room, a tiny bathroom. The plumbing had been completely hidden, which was the hardest part of the design, but he was well pleased with it. There was no sense, after all, in having a hidden room for refugees if it didn't have a facility to relief and clean oneself.

"I know it's tight," he admitted. "But it will have to do until I hear from my men."

Marguerite looked frightened. "What is this room?" she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself.

"I built it specifically to hide refugees from the Nazis. Many came and went from here. It has never been discovered." Despite his words, he felt his gut twist slightly. The tunnel at Fleurette's had never been discovered either. And there was no outlet from this room into the side of the mountain, no tunnel with which to escape if Chauvelin should find them here.

"And now I am a refugee," she murmured, sinking onto the bed. A few tears slipped from her eyes and Percy's hands clenched at his side.

"Because you did something good," he reminded her again, placing the torch on the night table and moving to sit beside her, though rather stiffly.

"Because I made a mistake," she snapped, edging away from him.

"Margot, listen to me." He took her hands, whether she wanted him to or not. She flinched, but didn't pull away. Encouraged, he went on, "You did not make a mistake. You tried to save those four families. You testified against a terrible man at trial, at the risk of your own life and career, and you have lived in fear for years. There are not many who could do what you have done. And, if you'll forgive your servant, I do not think it fair that you should have to continue living in fear!"

"It would be better if you let him kill me, and save someone else!"

He frowned. "You may as well stop saying that, because I can't let him kill you."

To his surprise, this seemed to greatly irritate her. "So I've heard," she said coldly, and she snatched her hands from his abruptly, and rose to look about the gloom.

"Heard what?" He was genuinely confused.

She didn't answer.

After several long, tense moments, he decided not to press the question, but instead he rose, stretched, and said, "Well, I expect you're filthy and would like a hot bath. There is a change of clothes in the washroom. You have my word that I will remain in here."

She looked shocked at the very idea of taking a bath in such close proximity to him, but after a few seconds she slowly shrugged out of the oversized coat he'd given her in the tunnel, and he took it from her and hung it on a nearby hook. Reluctantly, she frowned at him until he smiled sheepishly and picked up a heavy set of headphones on a shelf, snapped them on his ears, and began fiddling with the radio dials. He may as well try to pick up signals – Tony or Denys might attempt contact him, though he highly doubted it. They knew better than to advertise locations over the radio.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her mouth tighten into a thin line before she ducked beneath the curtain that separated the hidden bedroom from the adjacent bathroom.

He didn't pay attention to the time, nor did he dwell on what was taking place beyond the curtain. The buzz of static through the headphones blocked any sound, and he was grateful. He knew damned well he would be lost if he started envisioning Marguerite in the nude, water sliding down her lithe body, or her dressing in a pair of pajamas far too big for her.

When she re-emerged, he shut the idle radio off and removed the headphones. She looked slightly mollified that he hadn't listened in on her bath. Giving her a short bow, he said, "Please try to get some sleep. I need to rinse the dirt off as well, if you'll forgive me."

In the dim light of the torch, she flushed, but clutched the too-big pajama top and padded over to the bed. He slipped behind the curtain. The dim, bare lightbulb was on overhead, casting eerie shadows about the tiny bathroom. She had folded her dress and stockings neatly and left them on top of her shoes. He smiled at her obvious neatness before he stripped out of his own clothes, and gratefully sank into the still-hot bath. She had not been nearly as filthy as he was, and the water was still relatively clean. He would never tell his men, but he wasn't overly fond of being so dirty, and never had been, even if it was simply part of life in the League. He washed the grim off of his face and out of his hair, having to rinse it several times before the water ran clear. By the time he got out of the bath, the water was brown. He grimaced, pulled the plug to drain the bath, and quickly dressed in a second pair of pajamas. Then he took a deep breath, and stepped back into the tiny bedroom.

Marguerite was sitting up in bed with the quilts drawn over her legs and lap. Having found a brush, she was slowly pulling it through her deep auburn hair.

He tried not to look at her. There was something oddly beautiful and comforting about her sitting up like that, her knees drawn towards her chest beneath the patchwork squares, the large flannel pajamas obscuring her curves, her eyes haunted and staring off into space while she pulled the brush methodically through her hair. Ignoring her as best he could (which was nearly impossible), he opened a small cabinet and pulled out a couple of blankets, and stretched out awkwardly on the narrow floor. He was exhausted to the core, and he desperately needed sleep.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was clipped.

"Going to sleep, madam, and I suggest you do as well."

"You cannot sleep on a drafty, cold floor."

"It wouldn't be the first time. There is but one bed, and a gentleman would never ask a lady to sleep on the floor."

"But a lady can ask a gentleman," (it sounded as though her teeth were slightly gritted), "to sleep in the bed. Don't be foolish, Blakeney. You need a good night's sleep and you won't get it on the floor."

That was tempting. The devilish part of his brain was encouraging him too, and he was too tired to argue with himself.

"Don't misunderstand me," she went on stiffly, seeing his hesitation. "If you attempt do to anything else, I'll very likely kill you. I'm still absolutely furious with you."

His lips twitched. She probably would kill him. But regardless, as though he wanted to court danger, he stood up and placed the blankets on the bed. Marguerite scooted over, her blue eyes narrowed at him. He slid beneath the quilt, almost sighing at the delicious warmth her body had left behind. His very bones ached from the previous few hours; to tell the truth, he didn't have the strength to do anything to Marguerite that would warrant his impending death, no matter how intriguing it was to think about.

After he turned the torch out and the room was plunged into immediate darkness, he felt Marguerite shift and lay down beside him. She was careful not to touch any part of him.

"Why are you furious with me, exactly?" he murmured.

"Go to sleep, Blakeney," she snapped.

And so lay there in the dark, feeling her beside him, and after five minutes, he realized sleep was going to be nearly impossible. His body seemed to hum with electricity at her closeness; his muscles were tense and he couldn't possibly relax. Ruefully, he decided he would tell Tony and Andy that he'd slept on the floor; they'd never believe him otherwise.

And then suddenly, to his surprise, Marguerite whispered tersely, "Were you the boy who came backstage that night?"

Percy shifted uneasily. Ah yes, questions. She had them, she had just bitten her tongue throughout their journey from the underpass to the chalet. He would almost rather her go to sleep than ask that question, though. He assumed she was still mad at him for dragging her over the countryside, for not forewarning her about Chauvelin, and for handling her life without her permission...not because of something that had happened nearly twenty years prior, at a vaudeville theatre, when he was a hot-blooded young man who had seen a pretty, overworked girl that didn't enjoy leering drunks trying to cop a feel, and he'd wanted to protect her and make her fall in love with him. Pay off her debts and take her away to a better life. A silly fantasy that had been, he thought bitterly.

His silence seemed to be an admission though, because he felt her sit up beside him.

"And Lord Dewhurst? Was he the same Tony?"

He closed his eyes, but the darkness didn't change – it was pitch black whether his eyes were open or shut. He faltered, "To be fair, you mustn't blame Tony. He was trying to be a good friend that night."

"He was interfering," she said frostily, to his great surprise.

"As was your boss, if I recall correctly."

"I had a job to do. Of course he had to interfere!"

"Yes, you had a job to do. Otherwise Armand wouldn't have been able to pay the –" He broke off, but the damage had been done, and he knew it immediately because the quilts shifted.

That, and her tone was horribly dangerous.

"How do you know my brother needed my help to pay the rent?"

God, he really did have way of getting himself into scrapes. Why had he even opened his mouth?

He thought of turning over, to put his back to her, but that was cowardice. So he said heavily, "He told me once."

"You knew my brother?" Her voice sounded odd now.

"A long time ago."

"But how did you know him? He never once mentioned you!"

"He was a member of the French Resistance. And he was forbidden to contact you after he joined, so you wouldn't have known."

After a long pause, she whispered, "Oh God. What happened to him?"

No, this was definitely not where he wanted this conversation to go. Reluctantly, he muttered, "Get some sleep, Margot."

"I will not go to sleep until you tell me!" she begged. "Where is he?"

He sighed. Best get it over with, he thought ruefully. "He disobeyed orders in an attempt to save someone, and was captured."

"Was he sent to a camp? Where is he now?"

When he didn't answer, she grabbed his arm and shook him.

"Please, Percy! What happened to him? I've waited so long to find out!"

The first time she'd called him by his first name, and it was in desperation to know what had happened to her brother. His heart broke slightly because he didn't want to tell her what had happened to Armand. He had never told anyone, and he didn't want to tell anyone – not even the members of the League. It was his own personal sin, he supposed, and he'd never forgiven himself. Like hers was to send four families to Drancy, his had been to fail to save Armand.

Sadly, he whispered, "I couldn't get there in time, Margot. I tried. He had sworn himself to the League of his own accord, and when I found out he went against my orders, I raced after him. But the Germans rarely sent members of the French Resistance to the camps. They didn't know he had joined the League, which was probably best – otherwise they would have tortured him for information. Instead, they found information on his person proving he was part of the Resistance, and he was..." He took a deep breath; he could feel Marguerite beside him, tense and still. He clenched his fists beneath the quilt and went on. "He was executed. I failed to save him, and I have never forgiven myself."

For a long moment, she was still, her fingers gripping his arm, wrinkling the fabric of his sleeve. Then, without warning, she burst into quiet tears and fell across his chest, gripping him tightly. He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, though he was the last person on earth to comfort her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I had asked him to remain behind because I knew the Nazis were in the area at the time. I could pass for a Nazi with ease because of my appearance, but Armand's hair and eyes were dark, and I knew he would be questioned if seen crossing checkpoints. But he was in love with a girl and he was determined to get her out himself. They both were killed. I'm sorry."

It was a long time before her tears slowed; his shirt was soaked by the time she pushed up slightly. Quietly, she stammered, "Does your League know this?"

He shook his head, and then remembered she couldn't see him. So he answered thickly, "I didn't tell them, but they knew he had been killed."

"Why didn't you tell me? I've waited for information for so long..."

"You hated me!" He laughed without humor. "You would never have believed me!"

She slowly released him and sat up. "I'm... sorry," she faltered.

"So am I. When I lost Armand, I knew I had lost you, too."

To his surprise, she grasped his shoulder. "They say the Scarlet Pimpernel is in love with me." Her voice was slightly hard again. "But is it me, or the actress on the screen and in photographs?"

"You. I saw you before your film career started, not after. I knew how hard you were struggling to help Armand, and I thought you were brightest, prettiest woman I'd ever seen."

"Then why did you never tell me you loved me during the war? I would have believed you then."

"It was too dangerous to cross lines. I was trying to keep the League alive, and trying to save Jews and Poles and anyone else I could. I haven't had a good night's sleep since 1935, I'm certain. Many was the time I wanted to go to you and tell you about Armand, but you were in Switzerland and I knew you were safe. It was too risky to try and reach you. I know you have every reason to hate me, but I still love you. I have for a long time."

"I'm a horrible person, Percy. How could you love someone who did what I did?"

He was growing tired of her repeating this information, damn it all. So he snapped, "Margot, listen to me. You tried to save four families and didn't know Chauvelin was a double agent. On the other hand," he sat up and ran his hands through his hair, still damp from his bath, "I was unable to save Armand and haven't had the courage to tell you before now, so I am the horrible person. Do stop telling me you are; it's not true."

"Some pair we make," she said dryly. Then, sadly, she added, "Both of us think we are horrible people. But I do know this – Armand was always one to make his own choices. I just didn't realize... I had hoped, for so long, that he was still out there. But as the years went by after the war, I started to think that there must be no way he survived, because he would have come back to me."

"He had a picture of you in his pocket. You were about sixteen in it... the same year I saw you on stage. He used to tell me I should find you and tell you, but I couldn't do it. He carried that photograph everywhere. It was on him when he was killed."

"I remember when I sat for that photograph," she murmured. "We didn't really have the money for it, but Armand insisted. Oh, God, Percy. I'm so exhausted."

To his surprise, she curled up between his arm and chest, resting her head on his shoulder. She didn't wait for him to speak, but went on, "I don't feel like I have slept well since 1935, either. Tell me, why do you play such a fool? You obviously aren't, when it comes to tactics and strategy. Not to stay alive for over ten years. But you do it so well... I never once thought the Pimpernel could be you."

"If anyone had guessed my identity, I would have been killed. Playing a fool was easier than death."

"Is it?" She sounded doubtful.

"Get some sleep, Marguerite. It's been a long day."

She slowly released him and slid back to her side of the bed, and he felt momentarily cold at her absence. It was going to be a long night, he thought sadly.