The Magnificent Pimpernel

by Sue

AU: M7/The Scarlet Pimpernel. England, 1793: Widower Sir Christopher Larabee is asked to assist the Scarlet Pimpernel,a mysterious Englishman working in disguise to rescue innocents from the guillotine during the French Revolution.

3.

Chris hated parties.

As he and Buck rode in one of the Wilmington's carriages towards the palace of the Prince of Wales, he fidgeted and wished the evening was over already. Even before tragic events overtook his life, he had never been one for mingling and socializing, preferring small, private soirees to the huge, lavish events such as the one he was now facing. The dark-colored silken finery felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable, and he was fighting off the urge to regret accepting the invitation. But he had to talk to Percy.

"Calm down, Chris, this isn't an execution," Buck admonished him. Unlike Chris, his friend had no qualms about attending the reception, and was resplendent in his finest suit of clothes, a striking sky-blue silken coat with matching breeches and gold striped vest. A small glittering aquamarine flashed at his throat, nestled in the folds of his cravat.

Chris sighed, pressing his lips together. "That's what I keep telling myself, but so far I'm not convinced," he murmured, brushing at his sleeve.

"Well, don't worry," the other man said cheerily, his fingers checking his neckwear to make sure it was properly tied. "After tonight, when everyone gets a chance to see you're still around, they'll leave you alone again. Unless they want something from you, of course."

Chris nodded with resignation, then glanced at their surroundings. "You'll have to thank your father for letting us borrow one of his carriages. I still haven't gotten my stable back up and running yet, except for Valor."

His friend shrugged. "He had no problem with it, as long as I didn't take one of the better ones. I think he was just a little put out that *he* wasn't invited."

Chris smiled a little. "I'm sure his distress bothered you a great deal."

"I cried the whole time I was getting dressed," Buck said with a chuckle, as the carriage rounded the drive and approached the palace.

The large building was aglow from within with what seemed like a million candles; in the golden glow, Chris could see a host of fine carriages lining the drive in front of the sweeping stone staircase, and the flash and glitter of the rich occupants as they departed their conveyances and floated up the long stairs to the brilliantly illuminated front door. Through the tall glass windows, he could see the colorful throng of guests swirling across the ballroom floor, their silks and jewels sparkling and shining in the candlelight. The soft strains of music drifted through the air, mingled with the lilt of talking and laughter.

He sighed as the carriage stopped at the base of the staircase. This was going to be worse than he thought.

"Chin up, Chris," Buck whispered as he patted Chris's shoulder while they alighted from the carriage, "it can't be any worse than the Conciergerie."

"I'm not so sure," was the muttered reply, as the vehicle clattered away. They walked up the steps and past the small groups of attendees chatting in shining groups on the stone porch, Buck's brightly colored blue and gold finery sharply contrasting with Chris's more somber ensemble of black and plum.

Inside, Chris blinked against the brightness of the thousands of candles glowing in the arms of the enormous crystal chandeliers hanging from the elaborately cast and painted ceiling. Through the tall gilt doors past the reception area, he could see the dancers whirling in the ballroom, amidst the swishing of silk and soft clicks of the shoes on the gleaming marble floor. The foyer was crowded with groups of people, all dressed in the height of fashion, the men in their embroidered velvet court dress, the women in their high-waisted, full-skirted dresses of brightly colored silks and satins, jewels gleaming at their throats.

As they passed through the entryway, they were met by a young man in a powdered wig, dressed in a red velvet uniform and holding a long black wooden staff topped with a golden knob. Behind him was another man, similarly dressed, carrying a list.

"Name, sir?" he inquired in a haughty voice.

Chris gave his answer, and the young man turned to the man behind him as the second attendant scanned his list. After receiving a curt nod, the steward turned back to Buck and Chris and passed the nod along.

"You may proceed, gentlemen," he said, his tone losing none of its superior air. After this benediction, the man stepped to the doorway, struck the ground once with the long wooden staff, and bellowed, "SIR CHRISTOPHER LARABEE AND THE HONORABLE WILLIAM WILMINGTON!"

Chris winced, gritting his teeth. "Damn, I hate that," he sighed as they carefully stepped down the short stairway into the foyer.

Buck shrugged, looking around. "At least it lets the ladies know I'm here," he said, scanning the room with a growing smile. ""Looks like I shouldn't have any trouble staying on the dance floor tonight..."

A sound of rustles and footsteps filled the air, and Chris looked up to see several people, all friends of his, walking towards them with expressions of recognition. He braced himself; he knew this would happen when he attended his first social gathering since the tragedy, but preparing for it wouldn't make this any easier.

Many of the well-dressed men and women greeted Buck, but indulged most of their attention on Chris.

"Good to see you again, Sir Christopher," the men said, shaking his hand, "Wondered when you'd join us again. Terribly sorry about your family, dreadful business."

"We were very sad to hear the news," the women exclaimed as their eyes welled up. "How brave you are to bear it so manfully!"

These sentiments were expressed over and over, with variations of words and the degree of sincerity, until Chris was ready to bolt for the door. By the time the last well-wisher walked away, he was almost shaking.

"Are you all right?" Buck inquired as Chris wiped his face with his pocket handkerchief.

Chris nodded. "Fine, Buck, just..." He sighed, folded up the handkerchief and put it back into the pocket of his coat, his green eyes sweeping the crowd. "I know they mean well, but...they just don't know, that's all." He shook his head, his expression one of thinly veiled outrage as he surveyed the glittering crowd. "How they can dance and drink like this when people are being slaughtered by the hundreds every day, I have no idea."

"Well, that's going to change soon. We'll see to that," Buck promised him. "In the meantime, if you don't mind, I'm going to see if Lady Audrey over there needs a dancing partner."

"Go ahead," Chris replied with a casual wave of his hand. "I'll be fine as long as no one else tries to smother me with good wishes."

"Sir Christopher! Odd's fish, but I'm so glad you decided to come!"

Chris jumped a little at the boisterous voice and looked up. Sir Percy Blakeney had entered the room, and as usual, every other activity in the area ceased so that the occupants could gaze in awestruck admiration.

He stood in the doorway leading to the ballroom, posed perfectly at the top of the short stairway, his shining crown of golden hair and brilliant smile outshining all others in the room. His graceful six-foot-odd frame was clad in a stunning court ensemble of dark blue velvet, the edges along the front of the coat, the collar, and the large cuffs trimmed with large embroidered flowers of pink, cream and purple, mingled with sparkling silver thread. Beneath the coat shimmered a cream satin waistcoat stitched with light green and gold flowers. At his neck frothed a bountiful white cravat, decorated with a gold and sapphire brooch; his hands were all but hidden beneath the frilly ruffles at the ends of his sleeves. In one hand hung a long, lace-trimmed handkerchief as snowy white as his silk stockings, and his feet were shod in gleaming black shoes with gold silk bows. He was easily the most beautifully dressed man in the room, and appeared perfectly comfortable with this fact.

Chris heard Buck give an amazed snort.

"Good evening, Percy," Chris replied amiably as Percy approached them. "You're looking, er, well."

"Blasted kind of you to say so, my friend," was the flattered reply as they met. "And Mr. Wilmington as well! How the devil are you, sir? Delighted to see you finally managed to persuade our friend to end his hibernation."

This was all spoken in a somewhat fey, prattling manner that bordered just to one side of simpering. Buck nodded pleasantly at the salutation, but seemed somewhat discomforted by the baronet's excessively pretty attire.

"I'm doing quite fine, Percy," he muttered, self-consciously adjusting his coat as he stared at Percy's finery. "So are you, it seems."

Percy flashed a brilliant grin. "Sink me! I shan't deny it," he declared, waving the handkerchief for emphasis. "My tailor delivered this just this morning, and I'm simply mad for it! Cost a demmed fortune, but a fellow must be properly attired, even if it do take his last shilling." He brushed one hand over the intricate embroidery which all but covered the front of the coat. "La! But I swear, I don't ever want to take it off. Perhaps I shall have a matching nightcap made, and wear it every night to bed!"

Here Percy erupted into his inane laugh, enormously amused at himself. Chris smiled politely, Buck managed a sideways grin.

"Yes, that's one smashing suit of clothes," Buck muttered as Percy's giggling finally began to subside.

"I'm so thrilled you approve," was Percy's gushing reply. "Now, sir, I do hope you don't mind if I borrow Christopher for a few moments. I am in the midst of the most ferocious debate, and I must insist on his participation to back me up. Would you be so good as to excuse us?"

Chris had never seen relief flood Buck's eyes as it did at Percy's inquiry. "Oh-certainly, Percy, I've got to go find Lady Audrey anyway. Have a good time."

He smiled, cast a significant glance at Chris as if to say, 'Good luck, you're going to need it', and walked away into the glittering crowd. Chris watched him go, barely able to suppress a smile as he imagined how surprised Buck was going to be when he discovered the secret Percy was concealing beneath the silver thread and lace ruffles.

"Now, my friend," Percy said, gently taking Chris's arm and guiding him up the three stairs into the ballroom, "we mustn't waste a moment. At this moment we are involved in a most dire discussion, and your opinion is highly looked for."

Chris glanced at him; this sounded serious, but Percy would never be so foolhardy as to discuss anything secret in the middle of a crowded reception. Suspecting that this might be part of the ploy, he simply nodded and said, "I'll help in any way I can, Percy."

"Good show!" the other man responded, and they moved into the ballroom.

The Prince's ballroom was enormous, a breathtaking array of shining marble walls lined with round polished pillars. Overhead the massive crystal chandeliers winked and sparkled as they shed their light on the bejeweled dancers below, the gracefully matched pairs waltzing along to the lilting music.

Chris followed Percy to one corner, where a small knot of men stood waiting. Chris recognized most of them, and was not surprised to see that they were only slightly less elaborately attired than Percy. Each man was arrayed in an extravagance of lace, ruffles, shimmering silks, and a wealth of flounced cravats and expensive jewelry. The face of every man in the group wore an expression of lazy indifference, as if it was an immense effort simply to work up the energy to enjoy themselves.

"Gentlemen," Percy greeted them with a bright smile, "I've returned, and as you can see I've brought a most wonderful surprise. I trust you are all acquainted with Sir Christopher Larabee?"

Muttered affirmations, greeting and offers of condolences resulted, and Chris accepted them all graciously, secretly amazed that the group was able to muster the incentive to speak at all.

"I hear you've been having a discussion," Chris said, putting his hands behind his back and trying to relax, fully aware of how incongruous his plain clothing was among their peacock-like finery.

"Oh! It's perfectly dreadful," one of the guests, a tall man with a thin face and red hair, exclaimed passionately, clutching his handkerchief in despair. "A most horrible waste!"

"Come, Elton, don't mince words," a shorter, dark-haired man sniffed in a deep voice, his sharply featured face florid with outrage. "It's final proof that the French have gone mad."

"Farleigh's right," a young member of the group announced earnestly, his gray eyes large and alarmed. "We must write a letter! A strongly-worded letter, and make them stop!"

The other men burst into fevered conversation, and Chris looked around, confused. "Is this about the Revolution?" he asked.

"Oh, bother the bloody Revolution, Christopher!" Percy exclaimed, his voice trembling slightly with fury. "Those damn French are ruining thousands of yards of perfectly good silk to make hot-air balloons!"

This explanation caused an outburst of enraged oaths and expressions of disbelief.

"Lud, we've got to stop them before they destroy all that beautiful Parisian fabric!" proclaimed a stocky gray-haired older gentleman, his round face wearing a look of profound agitation.

"Where will it come from, if it don't came from France?" another of the group, a young man with thick sandy hair, queried anxiously.

"Now boys, boys," Percy soothed, holding his hands out in a calming gesture. "We mustn't make ourselves faint with excitement. Cool heads must prevail, and here is one of the coolest in England." He turned to Chris. "What are your thoughts, my friend? Is this not most atrocious?"

Chris thought it was one of the silliest things he'd ever heard anyone argue about, but cleared his throat and simply said, "That's one of the words that comes to mind, yes."

"What if they use up all the silk?" fretted the gray-eyed young man. "What if they start using the satin, and the taffeta, and the velvet-"

"I'm not so sure a velvet balloon would float, Benjamin," muttered Farleigh with a frown.

"Well! Thank God for that, sir," Percy exclaimed, patting Farleigh on the shoulder. "The velvet shall not be imperiled, at least. But we cannot stand by and allow those rascals to misuse that marvelous silk. I promise to take this matter up with His Highness this very evening!"

"Causing trouble again, Percival? Most shameful of you."

Chris turned at the sound of the drawling male voice, recognizing it at once. The dancing had stopped, and walking towards them was a tall, black-haired gentleman with a long, handsome face and lazy brown eyes. The man smiled at Chris and nodded, a gesture Chris instantly returned; Lord Tony Dewhurst had changed quite a bit since the time he, Chris and Percy had made mischief at school together, but had never lost any of his grace, good looks, or cultured civility. He was, however, dressed just as ostentatiously as the other men in the small group, and wore the same expression of insipid boredom.

Tony was smoothly leading a woman from the dance floor, and as Chris looked at her, he knew almost immediately who she had to be. She was nearly as tall as Tony, and moved with a regal bearing which flowed through every line of her slender figure. The brightness of her glistening green silk ballgown, embroidered with silver thread, and the flash of the emeralds which blinked from her throat and nestled among the feathers set in her thick red-brown curls, utterly failed to outshine the quiet fire of fierce intelligence blazing in her green eyes. She saw Chris, and a small, sympathetic smile touched her full lips, but before she could speak, Percy's voice cut through the air.

"Trouble? Nonsense, Dewhurst, merely acting to halt a grievous wrong!" Percy told his best friend emphatically.

The woman laughed; it was a sweet, musical sound of pure amusement. "It appears that something has managed to put Sir Percy in a passion," she teased, her light voice permeated with a lilting French accent. "Perhaps the price of lace has risen again?"

"Alas, my Marguerite knows me too well!" Percy replied fondly with a smile, taking the woman's hand. "But that would merely be an annoyance, this is more of an outrage. However, in your sweet presence, I shall choke my anger off for now." He turned to Chris. "Sir Christopher Larabee, pray allow me to present my wife, Lady Blakeney."

Chris bowed gracefully. When he brought his head back up, he saw Lady Blakeney eying him with gentle compassion.

"Such a great pleasure, monsieur, after all that my husband has told me of you," Marguerite said with a smile. "I must thank you for being such a good friend to him all these years."

Chris glanced over at Percy. "You're very kind, milady, but I do hope he didn't tell you *everything* about our school days together."

Percy barked out a laugh. "Begad, my friend, I'm not that daft! The lady would never speak to me if she knew the mischief we indulged in then."

Marguerite gave him a tolerant smile and turned to Chris. "You see, Sir Christopher, how my husband keeps secrets from me! Perhaps later you will be good enough to tell me of those school days. I believe there was an incident involving a bowl of noodles and a horse?"

Percy gasped and whirled on Dewhurst, shocked. "Tony, you *told* her!"

Dewhurst appeared unintimidated. "Lud, Percival, *everybody's* heard about that one..."

Marguerite gave them an amused look before returning her gaze to Chris. Her expression softened as she took a step closer and gently touched his hand. "But such tales can wait. I have also heard of your sorrow, and I hope you will permit me to express my sympathy for your loss. I am a child of France as was your wife, and deeply regret that the madness of my countrymen turned so unforgivably on one of their own. I pray God will rest the souls of your wife and son, and give your heart peace."

Her voice had dropped to little more than a whisper, every word uttered with complete sincerity. Chris stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure how to respond; this was completely different than the quick, almost offhand condolences he'd been receiving all evening. He'd expected Marguerite, a former actress, to be superficial and posturing, but as he looked into her eyes, he recognized the light of understanding, as if she knew full well the horrors that he had faced and despised their cause as much as he did.

Finally Chris cleared his throat and nodded, recovering enough to quietly say, "Thank you, Lady Blakeney. You have my appreciation, and Sarah's and Adam's too, I'm sure."

Marguerite nodded in acknowledgement. As she stepped back to join her husband, a blare of trumpets came from the outer porch, causing a flurry of expectant muttering among the guests.

Percy perked up instantly. "Zounds, it appears His Highness has arrived," he said, fluffing up his cravat and looking at the other men. "To your ladies, my friends! The shocking matter of the silk shall be dealt with before the night is through!"

The others scurried off into the crowd as Percy hurriedly smoothed his lace cuffs and adjusted his jacket. He threw Chris a quick glance. "You may stand with Lady Blakeney and I, Chris, all right? I daresay it's high time you met the Prince. I do hope he remembered what I told him to wear, the royal wardrobe is in a ghastly state, simply ghastly! If he has chosen the wrong cravat, I shall perish of embarrassment."

Chris took his place, checking his clothes quickly but feeling less than anxious about the matter. There was a great deal of excitement in the foyer, and after a few minutes a royal attendant ran into the ballroom, resplendent in a scarlet velvet coat, white silk breeches and stockings, and a large royal blue satin sash draped over one shoulder. The man stopped at the doorway, struck the long black gold-topped staff in his hand once on the marble floor, and yelled, "HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE PRINCE OF WALES!"

There were many trumpet blasts and flourishes, and a loud rustle swept through the air as every person in the room executed a deep bow of respect. After a few moments the royal party entered the ballroom. At its center was a round middle-aged man with rouged cheeks and a curly dark brown wig, dressed in a highly ornate green and gold velvet outfit, shining jeweled medals dangling from the gold sash hung across his ample middle. His face had a rather florid air of dissipation about it, but the sagging muscles lit up instantly at the sight of Percy, and as the crowd rose to its feet the Prince made straight for Blakeney.

"Percy!" the Prince exclaimed in a rough but delighted voice. "You're looking most splendid this evening."

Percy grinned and bowed again. "Your Highness outshines us all, I'm sure," was the smooth reply. "Were my suggestions satisfactory to the royal taste?"

Prince George smiled proudly, adjusting the lapels of his gold-threaded coat. "Most satisfactory, old fellow, but I'm afraid I must sack one of my valets. The man cannot tie a cravat properly to save his life."

Percy sighed into his huge lacy handkerchief. "La, how tiresome! The quality of service really has gone down lately. But don't sack the poor rascal-allow me to send over my valet to tutor the man in his duties. He is quite the artist in such matters, and will have your fellow suitably knotting the royal cravats in no time at all!"

This appeared to greatly please the Prince, whose ruddy face broke into a huge grin. "Splendid!" he proclaimed.

"Now, Highness," Percy continued, laying a hand on Chris's shoulder, "allow me to present a most excellent friend of mine, Sir Christopher Larabee."

Chris bowed, wondering what he was going to say to the Prince of Wales.

But the Prince merely nodded quickly, muttered the word "Delighted," and turned his attention fully back to Percy. Chris blinked, but was not terribly crushed, thankful only that he did not have to talk to the Prince while the entire ballroom listened on.

"Listen here, my lad," the Prince was saying to Percy, taking a step closer, "you'll not believe who I heard from a few weeks ago."

"You Highness must forgive me, but I'm far too dull tonight to venture a guess," Percy replied in a lazy voice.

"Well," the Prince said in a vaguely amused tone, "that man from France, the agent from the French Republic, is writing me again-it's the third time now-trying to tell me that you're the Scarlet Pimpernel!"

Chris tensed, trying not to show his surprise. Someone knew Percy's secret! Time seemed to stop for an instant as he felt his skin grow cold-what would happen now? Would they arrest Percy? What would the baronet do now that his ruse had been discovered?

The timeless instant ended, and Chris looked to Percy as covertly as possible, to see what would happen next.

To Chris's amazement, Percy threw back his head and exploded into his foolish laugh. The entire room followed suit, the marble walls ringing with the sound.

Chris smiled, although he was anything but amused, and quickly studied the faces of the room. To his relief, not a single person seemed to be taking the statement seriously.

"Sink me, but that fellow is persistent!" Percy chortled, delicately dabbing at his moist eyes with the lacy handkerchief. "Insane, but persistent, 'pon my soul! Hem!"

"Most persistent, and it's driving me mad, frankly," the Prince confessed. "He's insisting you revealed yourself to him as the Pimpernel, and that you trussed him up in an abandoned theater and left him wearing the Pimpernel's ring to make it look as though *he* were the man! Utter nonsense, of course, and I told him so."

Percy shook his head and coughed, his smile disappearing. "It's more than nonsense, sir!" he proclaimed, his voice now tinged with outrage. "It's slander, by God, to mingle my good name with that of that impudent scoundrel. I, go traipsing off to France in the rain and mud? I, crawling about those horrid grimy prisons looking for aristocrats to rescue? Why, I'd spoil my clothes!"

The Prince shrugged. "I believe I've made my position quite clear to him this time, but he won't be persuaded, I fear. As absurd as it is, he has sworn to the death that you're the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Percy gasped a little and went very pale. With a slight moan he fell against Chris, pressing the handkerchief to his face. Startled, Chris gave a grunt and did his best to support his fainting friend, although, as Percy was over six feet tall, the task proved rather awkward.

"Oo!" the baronet groaned, staring at the Prince. "I simply cannot bear such insults to my honor! To accuse me of such disreputable behavior-" He swallowed and looked at Chris. "It's quite upset my constitution, I fear. Christopher, do be a good fellow and help me find someplace where I may soothe my nerves. I won't risk ruining this coat of mine by falling to the floor."

"Certainly," Chris said in a strained voice.

Percy glanced at the Prince. "Pray do pardon me, Highness. If I may join you later?"

"By all means," was the regal reply. "And calm yourself, Percy, you've nothing to fear. Only a fool would believe that man's rantings."

"Your Highness's kind words are much appreciated," Percy said in a weak voice. "Oh-and do mind that third button on your waistcoat there, it's looking a bit tarnished."

With that he staggered off with Chris's guidance, as the ballroom crowd chuckled fondly and shook their heads at the Frenchman's accusations.

The Prince watched them go, then turned back to his entourage. "Right then, where can a chap find a good game of cards?"


The small room close to the foyer was dark and deserted when Chris and Percy stumbled inside, Chris almost falling over from the weight of his limp friend. Despite its modest size, the chamber was richly furnished, with gilt tables, a satin divan, and a wall full of leather-bound books surrounding them. Pale moonlight slanted in through the tall, velvet-curtained windows.

As soon as they were inside and had closed the door, Chris helped the stricken baronet to the divan, easing him down onto the slick fabric.

"There you go," he gasped, thankful to have deposited his burden. "Is that better?"

"Were we followed?" Percy's low voice was muffled by the lacy handkerchief he was pressing to his face.

Chris straightened and shook his head. "No, I think everyone is with the Prince."

"Ah! Excellent," Percy announced in a firmer tone, dropping the handkerchief from his face and reviving almost at once. He looked up at Chris and broke into a wide smile. "What sport, eh?" he chuckled.

Chris could only stare down at him, thoroughly confused and a little angry. "Sport?" he repeated in a tight whisper. "Percy, that man in France knows who you are!"

"Who, Shovelin'?" Percy gave a small snort and waved his lacy handkerchief dismissively. "Not to fear, my friend, you saw what happened. The man's regarded as a crazed revolutionary fanatic."

Chris felt his teeth grinding together as his bewilderment increased. "Percy," he said with great patience, "forgive me for not feeling reassured by that, but who the hell is Shovelin, and what makes him think you're the Pimpernel? If I'm going to risk my life in this, I believe I'd better know."

Silence fell for a moment as Percy studied his friend, the mirth gradually fading from his blue eyes. At length he nodded.

"Yes, dear boy, so you should," he murmured softly. "Gad, but I should have told you before. I never would have thought he'd write His Highness again, but sink me, I should not have been surprised." He gestured to a nearby chair. "You'd best sit down."

Chris did so, settling himself on the gleaming wooden chair's striped upholstered seat and drawing close. Percy was sitting up now, bathed in the moonlight, a most serious expression on his face.

"First of all," Percy said in a hushed voice, "his name is not Shovelin'. I only call him that to see his blood boil, because demmit, the man is simply too much fun to infuriate! No sense of humor at all."

"So you have met him?" Chris urged.

"Zounds, yes," Percy replied, glancing out of the window. "Several times. Frightful fellow, no style at all. Insists on wearing nothing but black, which is all right, but he wears it without the slightest hint of panache. I've completely lost hope in him."

Chris jumped in quickly, almost beside himself with impatience. "So what's his real name?"

Percy pursed his lips for a moment, the somber light returning to his eyes as he faced his friend. "Well, in truth, Christopher, you may know him from your days in France. His name is Chauvelin."

"Chauvelin," Chris repeated, scowling in thought. An image leapt into his mind of a man, younger than himself but old in zealotry, with lengthy straight raven hair tied into a queue, a long, handsome face whose attractiveness was tempered with an underlying air of subtle cruelty, and sharp black eyes gleaming with blind fanaticism and cold ambition. Chauvelin was one of the highest-ranking members of the Committee of Public Safety, whose task it was to purge France of its less loyal elements. He was also one of Robespierre's most trusted agents, whose dedication to the Revolution and the justice of the guillotine was known and feared by all in Paris. An elegant man with a deep smooth voice, who moved with cat-like grace as he oversaw the arrest and executions of the condemned. Chris had heard of him often while in Paris, and had seen him several times, going about the bloody business of the Committee with ruthless efficiency.

"As you may know, he is quite the dangerous fellow," Percy went on, "and if we ever run into any trouble on our ventures, he will most likely be the source."

Chris glanced at Percy. "And...he knows you're the Pimpernel?"

Percy grinned a little and shrugged, reclining back on the divan. "Yes, but he can do little with the knowledge, besides make himself look like an ass to the English Court. One day I'll tell you how it all happened. I'd love to know how he convinced Robespierre he wasn't the Pimpernel, when we left him tied up with my old ring and some rather incriminating documents. Zooks! But that must have been a most amusing scene."

The dandified nobleman shook his head, sat up and stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. "At any event, you must know that Chauvelin is a most determined rascal, and is very eager to do all he can to find me and my men, and discover our hiding places when in France." He looked over at Chris, his blue eyes serious. "He is quite brutal, and not above using some rather ungentlemanly forms of interrogation. You must not underestimate him, and you must warn those who join you of his merciless nature. They should understand what they may face if they enlist in this endeavor."

Chris nodded. Having faced the horrors of the Revolution before, he knew it would be a difficult battle; however, the prospect of facing the terror seemed less daunting than the idea of allowing it to roll on unabated. "I'll be certain to tell them, Percy," he assured the baronet, his green eyes hard with resolve. "But if they feel the way I do, it won't prevent them from joining us."

"Excellent!" Percy said with a smile. "Do you feel you've found all the men you require?"

There was a moment of silence as Chris pondered the question. "Well, there's six of us, possibly seven. I suppose that's enough."

"The perfect number," was Percy's reassuring reply. "A small group that can slip in and out quickly, eh? And if they are at all like my men, they will be able to do the work of twenty. Are you familiar with the Fisherman's Rest?"

Chris frowned. "That tavern by the seacoast?"

"The very same," Percy smiled. "It's our rendezvous point in England; the landlord, Jellyband, is quite an excellent friend of mine, and knows all. Bring your men there five nights from now, and we shall set you all on your new adventure. We have been using my yacht, the 'Day Dream', for our journeys to France, and you and your men shall travel with us for now; she is a beautiful craft, and I daresay can easily hold our combined number. I believe between our two bands, we shall drive poor old Shovelin' to distraction in no time!"

He chuckled a little, then threw a look at the closed door. "Well, shall we rejoin the party? I fear Margot will quite forget me if I don't appear for at least one dance, and I simply must address the silk problem to the Prince."

He rose from the divan, and the two men proceeded to the door.

As they walked, Chris laughed a bit and shook his head. "Hard to believe those men were so upset over that, I have to admit. Of all the foolish things to worry about!"

Percy sniffed. "Well, dear boy, it *is* a horrid waste."

His friend shrugged, unwilling to echo that sentiment. "Yes, but to go on like that...If those men were in the League, we'd never get anything done. They'd be afraid of ruining their suits."

Percy stopped suddenly several feet from the door and turned to Chris, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Zounds, my friend, but I almost forgot to tell you..."

His comrade blinked, disbelieving. "You don't mean..." He paused, then pointed out the closed door. "*Those* men..."

Percy grinned slightly. "And Dewhurst, are the members of my League, among the bravest in England. Yes, sir, I most emphatically do mean precisely that."

Chris's eyes widened slightly, as he tried to picture that group of fey dandies enduring the horrors of France. "But, Percy, they..." He stopped, suddenly realizing. "It's an act, isn't it?"

"But of course, old boy," was the pleased response. "Begad, can you think of anyone *less* likely to be suspected of being in the League than a group of brainless ninnies concerned only with such trivial matters? They pull it off splendidly, I must say. At times, it's quite a lot of fun!" He turned and reached for the door handle.

Chris paled as a new and horrible thought suddenly occurring to him. "Percy?"

The other man looked back at him, his handsome face expectant. "Hm?"

Chris wasn't quite sure how to phrase his question. "Um-you don't expect my men and I to wear those fop clothes, do you?"

Percy smothered a laugh. "Lud love you, my friend! Not at all. Your men may deflect suspicion in whatever manner they see as suitable. However, if any of them desire to adopt our disguise, pray tell them that I will be more than happy to assist them. God knows London can always use more men of fashion!"

He grinned, pulled his handkerchief out once more, and opened the chamber's large gilt door. Bright candlelight flooded the room as the two men stepped back into the party; another moment, and the door was closed, wrapping the room and the secrets shared within its walls once more in darkness.


The dancers were just completing their set as Chris and Percy rejoined the reception. As they approached the floor, they saw Dewhurst and Marguerite standing to one side, watching the couples swirl past them.

"Recovered, Percy?" Tony asked in a languid voice.

"Oh, yes," Percy sighed with a shake of his head, as the dance ended. "Although I may have to dispatch a strong missive to that scoundrel in Paris, demanding that he halt his libelous claims at once. Perhaps Lady Blakeney will assist me in forming the proper French phrases with which to berate the rascal?"

Marguerite smiled. "I believe, my husband, that you need only send him your latest perfume bill. Surely that will convince him how mistaken he is."

"Ha! So it would," Percy barked. "Sink me, but perhaps I shall insist that he pay the demmed thing as punishment for linking my name with that impulsive jackanapes. T'would serve him right for upsetting me so."

Chris understood that this was all said for the benefit of those around them, so that any eavesdroppers would harbor no suspicions over any connection between Percy and the Pimpernel. He watched it all keenly, aware that he and his men would have to perfect such skills themselves if they were to avoid detection.

The musicians began playing a waltz, and Percy's blue eyes lit up as he turned to his wife.

"La, darling, they're playing that delightful new dance!" he exulted. "I do hope that the company of Dewhurst here hasn't dulled you too much to indulge the wishes of your husband?" He gracefully extended one arm.

The Frenchwoman laughed and elegantly placed one gloved hand on the baronet's elbow. "On the contrary, his company has been most enjoyable," she replied. "And most enlightening as well!"

Sir Percy threw his best friend a look of mock warning as he led his wife onto the floor. "Tony, if you said anything to her about the hot custard incident, I promise I shall flay you alive!"

Tony's unimpressed response was a stifled yawn, followed by a wide smile which was immediately answered. Then Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney were swallowed up in the sparkling sea of dancers.

Chris stood quietly by, watching. He slipped a glance at Dewhurst, wondering if he knew about the new members soon to join the League. But he could discern nothing in the tall nobleman's relaxed posture and bored expression; it was hard to believe by looking at him that he was a member of the League at all.

Turning his eyes out to the ballroom floor, he found it easy to locate Percy and Marguerite among the crowd; not only did Percy tower over most of the guests, but the two of them moved with an exquisite grace unmatched by any of the other dancers.

They were truly a beautiful couple, but as Chris studied them more closely, he realized that their charm had nothing to do with the fancy velvets, satins and jewels they wore. There was an unusual completeness to them as they danced, each looking into the eyes of the other as if no other living being existed around them. There was no trace of the shallow fop on Percy's handsome visage now; as he looked into the face of his wife, his blue eyes blazed with solemn adoration, an expression so intimate and intense that Chris felt almost ashamed for observing it. Marguerite was returning her husband's gaze with equal ardor, her face reflecting a fervent love even the greatest actress in the world could not counterfeit.

Pain seared Chris's heart; had he looked that way at Sarah, the few times they'd danced? Suddenly he was lost in another sea of swirling dancers, his memory sweeping him back into her embrace on another ballroom floor. He could hear the gentle music playing, feel the warmth of her in his arms as they whirled around the room, mindful of nothing but each other. He worshiped her; she worshiped him; and there was no time but that night, no world but their own, a world which would last forever.

Chris blinked, suddenly aware of the moisture stinging the corners of his eyes. Trembling, he drew a deep breath, thankful that no one was watching him as he shook himself from his reverie. Composing himself, he straightened, wondering at the strange vision which had passed so quickly. For an instant it had seemed so real; now it was gone, replaced by a more grim reality, in which Sarah was beyond his arms and the road before him was uncertain and dangerous.

He looked back out to the floor as Percy and Marguerite went past. A sudden pang went through Chris as he watched them; the deep emotion which flowed between them was not simply attraction, but a far more profound passion, one mingling immense love with a deep dread of separation. What could have happened between them in the past, to engender such powerful feelings? It appeared to be more than the fact that Percy was involved in a highly risky venture; the light in their eyes revealed the sort of longing born only through intense suffering, the nature of which Chris could only guess at.

But Chris was not in the habit of speculating over the pasts of others, even those of his friends; his mind looked to the task ahead, which would lead down paths far from the glittering palace of the Prince. As Percy and Marguerite waltzed by, oblivious in each other's arms, Chris observed them in resolute silence, promising himself that he would do all in his power to aid the Pimpernel in his cause, and ensure that neither Percy nor Marguerite would ever have cause to stand to the side, as he did, with empty, aching arms.

*******
For a photograph of the very cool authentic late 18th century court outfit that Sir Percy's reception suit is based on, please go to:
http://www.costumes.org/history/camerongallery/cameron28.JPG
*******

Across the channel, another man was also contemplating Sir Percy Blakeney, but the thoughts were far from kind.

As the aristocrats of London danced the night away at the Prince's reception, the same stars which shone so gently on the Royal Palace also dropped their light on the faraway streets of Paris. But there was no gaiety on those cobblestone thoroughfares, dim and all but deserted beneath the autumn moon. Here and there groups of soldiers moved through the streets, along with gangs of rough-looking men, working women, and followers of the Revolution seeking any sign of treason among the population. Robespierre was in power, and the Revolutionary Tribunal was working now to sweep away all signs of disloyalty to the new Republic. Despite the music and laughter lilting from the cafes, a palpable fear lurked through the streets of Paris, a fear augmented by the looming shadows of the ever more crowded prisons.

At the center of this terror was the large public square in the center of the city, a massive plaza once known as the Place Louis XV. Constructed as a monument to that king, it had at one time boasted a large statue of him at its center. Then came the Revolution; the statue was brought to the ground by the hands of the people, who constructed in its place a new, more terrible sovereign-the guillotine. Now named the Place de la Revolution, the square was the staging ground of the executions; hordes of citizens mobbed its space every day, cheering as the enemies of the new Republic met their doom, the blood of the condemned-noble and peasant alike-mingling together to stain the cobblestones red.

Nearby the Place de la Revolution stood a small but impressive building, two stories high, outside of whose doors proudly flew the banners of the Republic. A sign on the building identified it as the home of the Committee of Public Safety, one of Robespierre's most crucial organizations, dedicated to rooting out those who failed to embrace the new ideals. On this damp and chilly autumn evening, most of its rooms stood deserted, its occupants having condemned a satisfactory number of traitors to the Republic and gone home to their families. One corner room, however, still held the flickering glow of candlelight, and if a passerby chanced to look up into the tall paned window, he would see a man, standing like a statue as he watched the world below with angry black eyes.

He was not old, only a few years past thirty, but the fire of fierce fanaticism burning in his expression had an ancient and terrifying lineage. Many unfortunates in Paris had come beneath that piercing gaze; as one of Robespierre's most trusted agents, Citizen Chauvelin had become well-known for his ardent dedication to the cause of the Revolution. There were few who did not feel at least some concern to see Chauvelin approach them, his slender frame clad in black, the tricolor sash firmly knotted around his waist to show to all the extent of his commitment. Every inch of his appearance decried his precise nature; not one of his long smooth black hairs strayed from its queue, not a wrinkle appeared in his somber clothing. Only his dark and smoldering eyes betrayed any hint of the wild creature lurking just beneath the calm surface, a wildness which rarely surfaced in Chauvelin except in times of great trial.

Times such as this night.

Chauvelin had lost track of how long he had stood at the window, staring at the quiet world outside. His small office room was dark save for the single candle flickering on the desk. Its dancing amber light revealed a space mostly empty, save for a few chairs, two tables, and a bookcase piled with volumes. The desk was barren except for some writing instruments, a small pile of official documents, and a letter carrying the seal of the Prince of Wales, recently opened and now lying half-crumpled at the center of the desk.

The black-haired man had no reason to read the letter again; he already knew its contents by heart, with deep bitter understanding. In response to Chauvelin's third attempt at trying to convince the Regent that Sir Percival Blakeney was the Scarlet Pimpernel, the Prince had sent a long, somewhat sarcastic reply, containing many disparaging remarks concerning the Frenchman's intelligence and powers of discernment, several reasons why Blakeney could not possiby be the Pimpernel, and a stern warning to cease such ridiculous accusations at once.

As he gazed blindly out the window, Chauvelin could barely control the trembling which had seized his slender frame, his entire being consumed with one furious desire: How could he make them see?

He let his eyes wander across the empty plaza, pausing to study the silent form of the guillotine, its sharp, slanted blade waiting patiently for its morning's work. Almost alone among the people of Paris, he felt no fear as he looked upon the machine; its purpose was not murder, but cleansing, the perfect method of purifying the blood of France until only those true to the ideals of the Republic remained to bring forth a more powerful nation.

Chauvelin felt something stir in his heart as he contemplated that bright future. It was a vision nurtured as a poor youth from years of abuse at the hands of the hated aristocrats; how he'd dreamed of the day they would rise and strike back, and how thrilling it had been when that day finally arrived! Rarely had his blood raced as fast as the day they had stormed the Bastille, rarely had his heart felt more resolved than the day he accepted his position in the new regime. He would join the new order and sweep away all who did not honor the will of the people, and there was no measurement of his satisfaction as he watched those who had spat on him in the street meet their ends on the platform of the guillotine.

It had all been going so well. And then...

Chauvelin ground his teeth against the rage swelling through him. At first they had thought the Scarlet Pimpernel was merely an annoyance, rescuing a few prisoners here and there and leaving that confounding piece of parchment with the seal of the red flower behind. Always there was a diversion-a fire, a flood, loose animals set free to create confusion, and afterwards they would discover the condemned were gone. A minor inconvenience, it was thought; how hard could he be to catch, surrounded by the loyal citizens of the Republic?

Then the incidents grew more frequent, more of the traitors began escaping, and Chauvelin had been hard pressed to explain to Robepierre how such things could be happening. Information surfaced indicating that the Pimpernel was English, connected to the Prince of Wales, and like a furious hound on the scent of wounded prey, Chauvelin had lunged forward, certain he could find this enemy and rout him for good.

If only he'd known...

He shook his head angrily, looking into the shadows. It had been impossible; how *could* he have guessed that the Pimpernel was that insipid ass Blakeney? The man appeared a perfect fool, far too stupid to be suspicious. Every time they had met in England, Blakeney had acted like a dolt, making a joke of everything, mocking Chauvelin's name, taking nothing seriously except the latest fashion. No one would have thought him the most wanted man in France, least of all Chauvelin, until the night he and Blakeney met and did battle in the ruins of the Comedie Francaise. In the end Chauvelin had been defeated, and Blakeney had left him trussed like a hog awaiting slaughter, with the Pimpernel's own ring on one finger, placed there by the Englishman himself.

He fumed and rubbed his wrists, as if to wear away the memory of that embarrassment. Robespierre had almost condemned him that day, for sheer stupidity if nothing else; it had taken some hard talking to convince him, and the Tribunal, of his innocence, but in the end he had succeeded. But when he revealed the Pimpernel's true identity, he was very nearly arrested again, this time for insanity. Not a one of the Tribunal, or the Committee, or Robespierre, would believe that a brainless fop like Sir Percy Blakeney could be the Pimpernel. Chauvelin was obviously masking his own incompetence by creating lies, they proclaimed, and charged him to produce the real Pimpernel if he had any hope of regaining his former standing in the regime.

Chauvelin took a deep breath as he turned once more to the window, his black eyes gazing across the streets of Paris, towards England. Blakeney was somewhere out there, perhaps plotting another rescue, perhaps in Paris again, but he was there, daring to defy the Republic, laughing at Chauvelin with that horrible mocking laugh.

A hot, familiar hatred rose through Chauvelin's chest. It was bad enough that Blakeney had so completely fooled him; it was bad enough that Blakeney was everything Chauvelin despised: a rich, titled aristocrat leeching off the labors of the poor; it was bad enough that Blakeney had humiliated him in front of the Tribunal and had set hundreds of traitors free. But there was one thing more, an action far more galling than any of the Englishman's other sins.

Blakeney had taken *her*.

Chauvelin closed his eyes tightly against the burning rage which flooded through him at the mere thought. His mind carried him back to that tempestuous day when the Bastille fell to the people, the day he had first seen her, her dress torn and dirty, her green eyes blazing with the zeal of the Revolution, her long auburn curls streaming wildly in the hot winds of July. Never had there been a day so full of triumph and high emotion, a day which had swept them into each other's arms. He had never forgotten that blissful time, the warm feeling of her in his arms, those turbulent nights when their passion for the Republican ideals was overcome by another, more relentless urge.

How could *she* forget?

His black eyes flew open, staring once more into the night, amorous memories receding before a growing fury. How could she have left him, claiming she was frightened by his dedication to their cause, when he had only been acting for the good of their people? How could she have gone to that idiot Blakeney, an English aristocrat and enemy of all of the ideals the two of them had held most precious? She had been dazzled by ambition, or wealth, but that was so unlike the girl who had shared those nights with him. She should have known he would be angry at her betrayal of her homeland; she never should have blamed him for what happened next.

Those had been blinding days, he recalled as he folded his arms and glowered at the dark world beyond the window, days when his frustration at her rejection had driven his every move. Should she have been surprised that he would use her allegiance with their enemy to his advantage, as she had left him with little else? He had received information that the English were hiding the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family in an effort to save them from the justice of the guillotine. Should it have come as a shock when he threatened to tell Blakeney of their affair unless she discovered where the condemned aristocrats were being kept? She had left him with nothing except the memory of those blazing days; why should he not repay such coldness by using it to his best advantage?

As ruthless as it was, the blackmail had succeeded well; she had complied, on condition that he spare the lives of the St. Cyrs and only deport them. She should not have been shocked when they were guillotined anyway, nor felt guilt at their deaths; her reaction only showed how corrupting the decadent English influence had been on her. He had only been able to gain her cooperation in finding the Pimpernel by imprisoning her young brother Armand under threat of death unless she succeeded. Armand, as it turned out, was also member of that accursed League, and the arrest had afforded Chauvelin the chance to try to get as much information out of the boy as he could. It had been a disappointment that, despite torture, Armand would say nothing.

He had felt sure that Marguerite would do anything to save her brother, including obey his wishes and betray the Pimpernel, so he was surprised when he found her masquerading as a whore among his soldiers, attempting to gain entry to the prisons so she could free Armand herself. His decision to imprison her as well, and use her and her foolish brother to lay a trap for the Pimpernel, had seemed brilliant at the time; surely he would finally catch that bastard, and convince her that she belonged with him, in France. Instead...

He groaned inwardly, clenching his fists until his fingernails bit into the palms of his hands. Instead, he had been forced to confront the fact that it was that fool idiot Blakeney who was the Scarlet Pimpernel, and suffer defeat and incrimination at the tall Englishman's hands. Worst of all, he had seen Blakeney clasp her tightly in his arms, declaring that he would not have left her if he had known about her past, and she had responded with loving forgiveness. Somehow, Blakeney had discovered the truth about her affair with Chauvelin, but it did not seem to matter to him, or to her.

But it had never ceased mattering to Chauvelin, and as he stared bitterly into that cold October night, he vowed to the last drop of his heart's blood that some day, he would make it matter to Marguerite once again as well.

He drew a long, settling breath. How could she have faced him, and told him that she and Chauvelin had never loved each other? How could a woman of such fire and spirit consent to be taken away and tamed by a life of luxury, while the people she once championed still yearned for justice? She had been bedazzled by the blinding but cold brilliance of wealth; he had failed before to win her back to her homeland, but he was far from ready to concede defeat.

No, he thought to himself as he looked back at the Prince's letter still lying crumpled on the desk, the battle had only just begun. The prince and Robespierre believed him a lunatic for accusing Blakeney; very well. His only recourse was to double his efforts and apprehend the cocky Englishman, so that he could unmask him before the world as the enemy of France he truly was. It would take vigilance, and planning, and limitless drive, but Chauvelin felt no hesitation in taking this course, if it meant an end to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

For the first time all evening, a smile curled Chauvelin's lips as he contemplated the end of his mission, an end he felt certain he could achieve. Marguerite in his arms at last, finally releasing the delusions which had stolen her away from him and France; his suspicions, derided before, now confirmed before all the world; and, best of all, Blakeney in chains before the Revolutionary Tribunal, bleeding, broken, and defeated at last, that infuriating smirk wiped off his face forever. Then-after a suitable amount of time enjoying the hospitality of the Bastille while being persuaded to divulge the identities of his men-Sir Percy Blakeney would at last face the guillotine, and once the rest of his band were found, the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would be nothing more than a memory.

It was a very pleasant vision for him to contemplate, and he savored it, conjuring every detail. He was confident it would occur-sooner or later they would apprehend another member of the accursed League, and that man would be shown no mercy. Armand's questioning had been brutal enough, but such methods would have to be doubled if the Pimpernel and his League were to be stopped. It was, he conceded, a distasteful task, but such things had to be done if the ideals of the Revolution were to survive.

Somewhere in the city, a clock struck midnight, and he stirred from his musings. It was late; he still had to make the rounds of the prisons and make sure all was prepared for the executions tomorrow. With Robespierre in power now, the guillotine was certain to be very busy, and there was no time for error.

He stepped smoothly to the table, ready to extinguish the candle. As he did so, he caught himself, his sharp black eyes falling once more on the Prince's letter. After thinking for a moment, he slowly reached down and picked it up, grasping it in his fist as the anger swept over him anew. Then he guided it over the candle flame, one corner touching the fire. Instantly it sprung alight, the fire quickly consuming the parchment. Hastily Chauvelin carried the blazing letter to the fireplace nearby and flung it in. With a cold smile he watched it burn, feeling immense satisfaction as the blaze devoured the name of Sir Percival Blakeney, scorching it to ashes in a matter of seconds.

Feeling much better, Chauvelin blew out the candle, gathered his things, and left the room, his mind now properly cleared to focus on the day ahead. In the fireplace, the fragile remains of the letter shivered and fell to cinders, the wispy flakes of charred paper smoldering briefly in the darkness before losing their spark and turning to lifeless dust.



Chris sat patiently on his horse, and waited.

All around him, the English countryside was wild and deserted in the bright autumn moonlight. He was at the edge of the woods, not far from the road which led to the seacoast and the tavern known as the Fisherman's Rest; behind him stood the large, silent ruins of a grist mill, fallen into barely recognizable heaps of moss-covered stone.

It had been five days since the reception, and four since he had sent out the five letters, all identical and vague enough to avoid incrimination:

'Ten o'clock, Friday evening, Barker's Mill, if you still wish to join us.'

Chris had delivered two of the missives to Buck and JD; Vin had taken the other three to Josiah, Nathan and Ezra. Now all he could do was see who showed up, and make sure that those who elected to join him knew exactly how dangerous this endeavor would be.

The wind whistled a lonely tune through the tumbled-down rocks, and Chris frowned and bowed his head. Was he sure *he* wanted to do this? Percy's warnings wandered through his mind again, of the possibility of capture, imprisonment, torture, death. There had been times, after the murder of his family, when he would have hardly cared whether he lived or not; he had come close enough to extinction during the long, mad eighteen months he had brawled his way through England's less savory towns and villages, looking for trouble. Now that dark period, if not the anger, had passed, and it would have been just as easy to convince himself that he had earned the right to recover on the safety of England's shore. He had found enough trouble during the past year and a half to last a lifetime.

But as Chris lifted his green eyes to scan the grassy hills with expectation, he already knew the answer. The time for wandering and isolation was over for him; the suffering countrymen of his wife needed his help, and perhaps by doing what he could for them, he would find the peace which had eluded him in all the months of searching.

The pounding thud of hoofbeats caught his ear, and he tensed instinctively as several horses approached up the road. He recognized the cadence and relaxed, however, and in a few moments three horsemen appeared, their faces easily discerned in the bright moonlight.

Chris was not at all surprised to see Buck and Vin, but he was a little concerned to notice JD riding at Buck's side. A small pang went through his gut; he had truly hoped JD would think better of this and stay in England. The young man should not have to see hell so soon in his life.

"Evening, Chris," Vin greeted him as they rode up. "I see we're not too late."

"Maybe a bit early, by the looks of it," sniffed Buck as he glanced around. "Damn, I hate being the first to arrive at a party."

Chris smiled. "Don't worry, Buck, I don't think the rules of polite society apply to his occasion."

JD rode forward a little, sitting as straight and tall as he could in the saddle. His boyish face was serious as he nodded at the older man.

"JD," Chris replied, still wary. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

There was only a little fear in JD's expression. "I've been thinkin' about what you said ever since you said it, Chris," he said firmly. "I know it ain't going to be easy, but it'd be a lot harder just sitting by and not helping."

Buck sighed. "I tried to talk him out of it, Chris, but he's just too stubborn. And who knows, we might need that stubbornness during all this."

Chris looked once again at the determined face, the resolve burning in those wide hazel eyes, and sighed to himself. He could refuse to allow the young man along, but he had given his word; he could only hope his acquiescence was not dooming JD to an early grave.

More hoofbeats, and two more riders appeared.

"Now here's what I call an unholy congregation," Josiah's joking voice boomed out through the chilly air.

"We'll leave the holiness up to you," Chris replied with a dry smile as Josiah and Nathan rode up.

The older man laughed as he pulled his mount to a halt. "Then you might be waitin' a long while for it," he said, "but we're ready for whatever happens in the meantime."

"As we all should be," Chris said, a slightly grim tone permeating his voice. "Buck, JD, this is Josiah Sanchez and Nathan Jackson."

Greetings were exchanged.

Nathan looked around. "Guess we're just waitin' for Ezra Standish," he noted.

"If he decides to join us," Vin added with a hint of doubt.

Chris lifted his head at the sound of another set of hoofbeats thudding up the dirt road. Soon Ezra appeared on his chestnut horse, dressed to perfection in a high-collared green coat and royal blue cape, his deadly walking stick stored in his saddle at his side.

"I am pleased to see that I am not too late, gentlemen," he drawled as he rode up, his brown hair smooth and unruffled beneath his fashionable high-crowned hat.

"Decided to face the inferno after all?" Chris asked, tilting his head a little with a slight grin. He glanced over at Vin, who was wearing a small, surprised smile.

Ezra returned the smile, a gold tooth flashing among his natural ones. "Let us simply say your argument was sufficiently compelling," he said, shifting in his saddle. "Besides, the gaming these days has been far too dull to provide me with proper amusement."

Buck coughed. "Well, I think we can promise this won't be dull."

Chris watched as the men gathered together in preparation for the ride to the tavern. They were a small, motley group, varying greatly in talent and temperament, mismatched in many ways. Yet as he studied them, something made the small hairs on the back of his neck stir a little. There was something very strangely right about this group, an intangible connection he could not begin to define. He had no cause to feel that way-some of them were strangers, after all, and for all he knew they would not survive their first mission-but still, he could not shake the feeling. Well, he thought, time would tell.

"All right," Chris said aloud, riding to stand before the other six men and gazing sternly at them. "This is the final threshold. After tonight, there won't be any turning back. I was asked to advise you all of what we'll be facing; many of you know already. None of this is going to be easy; we're going up against people who will use any means to stop us, no matter how bloody or painful. And trust me, I've seen what they're capable of. If we're caught, they will have no mercy."

He was careful to rest his firm green eyes on each man as he spoke, drilling into them the importance of his words. "The Pimpernel and myself need to know that each man is fully ready to face whatever comes. If anyone here has the slightest doubts about this, now is the time to ride away. There will be no shame in it, and I won't hold it against you. But after this moment, you won't have this chance again."

Several minutes passed. Chris studied them closely, waiting, hoping they would all stay but thinking it might be otherwise. The only sound was the wind in the trees and the breathing and nickering of the horses as they fidgeted in the cool evening air. The men looked back at him, determined, perhaps a bit anxious, but unwavering in their decision. None of them made a single motion to ride away.

Finally Josiah sighed, a smile wandering onto his face. "Well, Chris, it looks like you're going to have to put up with all of us."

Chris swept them all with his gaze, grateful and a bit uneasy. He had never planned to be a leader of men in this sort of enterprise, but he was not about to abandon the fight. There was too much at stake.

"Very well, then," he said, picking up his reins with a nod. "Let's go."

With that, they struck out on the road to the Fisherman's Rest.


Half an hour later found them outside of a large, inviting tavern, its lattice-paned windows glowing warmly from the fires within. As they approached the establishment, Chris noted that several horses were in the adjoining stable; some if not all of the rest of the League had already arrived.

The stableman and his assistant did not seem at all surprised by the group as they reined in and dismounted; perhaps, Chris surmised, Percy had told them that they were to be expected. He noticed a range of emotions on the faces of his men as they walked up the tavern's smooth stone walkway; Vin was cautious, Ezra curious, JD about ready to burst from excitement. This was going to be interesting.

Inside, the Fisherman's Rest gave every indication of its reputation as an old but well-used tavern. It wore its age proudly, from the ancient preserved timbers to the gleaming red tile lining the floor. Wooden tables, marked with the signs of countless years of drinking and dining, were placed in orderly fashion around the large coffee-room, flanked by tall seats worn smooth. Brightly polished pewter plates and tankards decorated the shelves on the walls, and over the huge fireplace gleamed several pieces of brightly polished brass. Overhead, two large brass chandeliers spread their brilliant glow over the entire room.

They were not alone; at the other end of the large room sat a small knot of well-dressed men, their heads together in conversation, the smoke from their pipes already forming a small cloud which drifted about the rafters. As Chris and his friends made their way into the room, one of their number quickly stood, tapped another of his group on the shoulder, and began conversing quietly, gesturing towards the new arrivals.

"Damn," Chris heard Buck mutter. "Looks like it's off for tonight, Chris."

Chris glanced back at him and frowned. "What?"

Buck nodded at the tall figure. "Well, that's Percy there, and it looks like he's having some kind of party. The Pimpernel won't come anywhere near the place with other people around."

The tall man straightened-it was indeed Sir Percy Blakeney-and began walking towards them. Chris said nothing, but was hard put to suppress a smile.

Ezra sighed as he unclasped his cloak. "We may at least get a decent game of cards out of the evening," he muttered.

"Christopher!" Percy exclaimed in a delighted voice as soon as he was close enough to extend his hand. "Bloody good to see you again!"

Chris smiled cordially and shook the nobleman's hand, noting that his friend was fashionably dressed as always. "Good evening, Percy," he replied. "I hope we're not interrupting anything."

"Oh," he waved a perfectly manicured hand towards the small assemblage, all of whom were now watching them keenly, "merely exchanging gossip, nothing too serious. Won't you and your friends join us? We can make the introductions over some proper pipes and some of my good host Jellyband's best ale."

Chris glanced back at the other men; a few looked uncertain, but he was sure Percy would explain all momentarily. He turned back to Percy and undid his cloak. "We'd be happy to," he said with a grin.

"Excellent!" Percy exclaimed. "And perhaps we may find time to discuss a few important matters, eh?"

Several minutes later, Chris's men had shed their traveling coats and were relaxing by the fire. The introductions had gone quickly; they had seen many of Percy's friends around during hunts and social occasions and found it easy to relax in their company.

There was Lord Tony Dewhurst, of course, at Percy's side as always. The black-haired, sharp-faced Lord George Farleigh sat nearby, along with an older, round-faced, somewhat portly gray-wigged gentleman whose name had been given as Sir Osbert Digby, but whom everyone seemed to call Ozzy. Next to Ozzy lounged a long-legged, red-haired, thin-faced man clad in dapper clothes and an air of cheerful fussiness, who introduced himself as Lord Phillip Elton.

At the table next to this group sat two very stylish young men, apparently the most youthful of the group. The elder of the pair, designated as Sir Benjamin Llewellyn, was taller than his counterpart, with a wide, handsome face, dark curly hair, and snapping gray eyes. The other man, who gave his name as Lord Hal Stowmarries, was shorter, a little more stocky, and possessed thick sandy hair, a long face, and a somewhat anxious expression.

Percy's friends were indeed the same men whom Chris had met at the reception, but there was nothing to be seen in them now of the fancy fops who had fretted so over the ruination of a few hundred yards of silk. Their clothing was still as fashionable as Percy's, but their speech and manner were devoid of the brainlessness they had exhibited before. They appeared to be sober, serious men, and Chris also noticed that they had added one more to their number, a very young man no older than JD with a round, youthful face, curly brown hair, and oddly familiar green eyes.

Chris had harbored a private concern that his friends, particularly JD, Nathan and Vin, would be greeted with apprehension or objection by Percy's men, who were so far above them in class and wealth. However, a few moment's observation proved to him that they were all accepted readily into the group; Vin fell into a hunting discussion with Elton and Farleigh, Ezra had quickly organized a game of hazard with Hal and Benjamin, and JD and the young brown-haired man appeared to be discussing horses.

"Have you told them aught?" Chris heard Percy mutter into his ear as the two of them relaxed next to the fire, smoking their long clay pipes and watching their men.

Chris shook his head. "Just that we're supposed to meet the Pimpernel here tonight. I'll leave everything else up to you. But they're ready for the fight, Percy, as I am. They won't let you down."

"Oh, I'm certain of that, my friend," was the pleased response, as Percy took a lazy draw on his long pipe. "Poor Shovelin'! We'll have him quite turned around before all this is over. Makes me pity the poor fellow, almost."

Chris chuckled. "Say, Percy, who's that young man talking to JD? I don't remember seeing him at the Prince's reception."

Percy glanced over to where the two were conversing. "Ah! That brave young scoundrel is Armand St. Just, Marguerite's younger brother. Remarkable lad, and she dotes on him terribly. They raised each other, you see, after their parents died when they were children; he is her only living relative in the world."

This information gave Chris something of a start. "She allowed her only living relative to join the League? He looks rather young for all this dangerous business. I wasn't too sure about letting JD in on this-Armand looks even younger."

A serious gleam pervaded Percy's eyes for a moment. "That boy's courage exceeds his youth, my friend, trust me," he replied quietly. "And I fear even Margot would not have been able to dissuade him from joining, if she had known at the time. The French had him once, and even Chauvelin's tortures failed to persuade him to betray his loyalty to me. Despite his tender years, I trust him with my life, as much as any of my men. I am sure your young Mr. Dunne will prove just as surprising."

Half an hour passed in friendly conversation before Percy finally rose. Silence gradually fell over the group as all eyes turned to the tall figure.

"My friends," Percy began in his smooth, cultured voice, "I am quite delighted that you were all able to join us for our little gathering. But I daresay it was not chance that brought you to this fine establishment tonight, correct?"

Chris's men looked at each other, unsure how much to reveal; the Pimpernel's activities, however philanthropic and popular, were also illegal.

Seeing their expressions, Percy hastened to say, "Fear not, my friends, you are in safe company here. You were planning to meet someone, perhaps? Let us say-the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

Buck shot Chris a perplexed look as some of the others muttered a little. Then he cast a quick glance at JD.

JD's hazel eyes widened. "*I* didn't say anything!" he hissed in protest.

Armand nudged him. "It's all right," he said to JD, in a light voice thickly laced with the accent of France, "they blame me for this sort of thing quite a lot, too."

Percy laughed a bit. "Loose lips did not divulge this fact to me, my friends," he assured Chris's men. "I received this news from an unimpeachable source, the Pimpernel himself!"

All six of Chris's men opened their eyes wide at this news.

"You know the Pimpernel, Sir Percy?" Buck gasped.

"Quite intimately, my friend," Blakeney said with a grin.

JD looked around, astonished. "Is he here?"

Ezra was peering very sharply at Percy, his green eyes narrowed. "I suspect he is much closer than we think, Mr. Dunne," he murmured softly.

"Gad, Percy," muttered Farleigh in his usual sarcastic manner as he prepared to take a drink of his ale, "you and your flair for the dramatic! Do you intend to draw this out until Christmas?"

"I hope not," said Hal as he sadly eyed the large pile of winnings sitting in front of Ezra. "I'll be bankrupt by then."

Percy grinned. "You are quite right, my friends, the suspense must be ended at once. Gentlemen, the Pimpernel is not only present, but he stands before you now."

Chris's men glanced around, slightly confused.

"But, Percy," Buck ventured with hesitation, "*you're* the only one who's standing."

"Precisely, Mr. Wilmington," was Percy's firm reply.

A few moments of silence followed, broken finally by Buck's mildly puzzled laughter. "Hell," he said good-naturedly, "it almost sounds like you're tryin' to say that you're the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Chris eyed his old friend with an even, serious gaze. "That *is* what he's saying, Buck."

Buck stopped, shot Chris a very surprised look, and for years afterwards Chris would swear that he saw Buck grab the seat of his wooden chair in an effort to keep himself from falling out of it. Most of the other men simply stared, dumbfounded; Vin muttered a very soft and highly amused, "Well, I'll be damned!"

"I understand your surprise, my friends," Percy said quickly. "My men here and myself have done all we could to prevent suspicion, and I daresay we've been astonishingly successful."

"Yeah, I'll say you have," Buck gasped, his large blue eyes traveling from face to face among Percy's group. He glanced at Chris. "Is this a prank or something?" he said in a sharp whisper. "I mean, Percy and these men couldn't be...well, you saw them at the reception...I mean, they're-well, they're-"

Chris smiled. "Nincompoops?"

The other man paused, a bit thrown. "Um...er, yes."

His friend very slowly shook his head. "It's not a prank, Buck. I didn't believe it, either, but it's true. Trust me."

Buck frowned a little, eying Chris keenly as he sat back. "I do trust you, Chris," he said in a low, rather stunned tone as his eyes darted between Chris and Percy. "It's just, the thought of this all being true-is sort of hard to take in, right now."

"Lud, my boy," laughed Ozzy, the older, gray-wigged member of the group, "we often find it hard to believe ourselves! None of us ever imagined being involved in a mad scheme such as this. Yet, here we are."

"It is madness, to be sure," Percy agreed, squaring his shoulders, his voice becoming somber as he looked at each of Chris's men in turn, "but it's this type of insanity that the world needs right now. The darkness in Paris grows deeper by the hour. Christopher has sworn to me that you are all men who are not afraid to face that darkness, and bring as many of those poor suffering souls out of the prisons and back into the light as we can. I trust him with my life, as we must all trust each other with our lives in order to safely do what must be done. There will be no glory in this, nor any great reward when it is over; I can only offer you danger, adventure, and a bloody grand story for your children to hear someday, if you are still willing to join our small band."

Silence fell in the coffee room as Chris's men absorbed these words.

After a few long moments, JD looked around and stood up, his hazel eyes bright with purpose. Chris watched him carefully; JD had so lionized the Pimpernel that Chris had been unsure what the young man's reaction upon meeting him would be. Would he be disappointed that it was someone as seemingly unheroic as Percy? Or would he be unnerved at being in his idol's presence at last?

Instead, Chris was relieved to see JD gaze at Percy with a mixture of quiet awe, respect and restraint.

"I'm not gonna try an' speak for anyone else," he said in a strong, even voice without hesitation, "but I'd be very proud to join you, sir, and face whatever they want to throw at me."

"And we should be proud to have you, my boy," Percy replied firmly. After a moment he threw a proud glance at Chris, who could only give a small shrug, an impressed light shining in his own eyes. JD might indeed prove surprising.

Josiah stood as well. "I owe you men my life," he said in his deep, rich voice, glancing at the members of the League. "It would be pretty ungrateful of me not to try and reduce that debt a little. If the Lord got me out of France safely once, I suppose He can do it again."

"I suspect we shall all keep that good gentleman quite busy, my friend," Percy chuckled.

"Wouldn't mind usin' my freedom to help other people get theirs back," Nathan noted.

"I'm not afraid to go back to Paris," Vin said with a dry smile. "It's the Frenchmen who shot at me last time who should be worried."

Ezra grinned as he gripped his lethal gold-topped walking stick. "It sounds like a most intriguing endeavor, and I believe the wagering is still quite good in France."

"Not to mention the women," Buck admitted, rubbing his chin.

A grim smile crossed Chris's lips as he regarded his men, then turned back to Percy.

"You know how I feel, Percy," he said in a steely voice, every inch of his expression taut with determination. "I don't care a damn for glory, or adventure. My wife's people need my help. I couldn't save her, or my son. But I can help them, and I'll do whatever you ask to make that possible." He paused and drew a deep breath. "So, it looks like you've got seven more members for your League."

Percy smiled as he firmly clasped Chris's shoulder. "And the League is most happy to have them, sir, I assure you!" he proclaimed. After giving his old friend a grateful smile, he released him, stepped back and picked up his tankard of ale, directing his gaze to the entire group. "A toast, gentlemen."

There was a brief rustle as every man took his drink in hand and stood.

Percy lifted his tankard, his blue eyes burning brightly. "To the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, new members and old. May God be with our endeavors, and may the time soon come when our services shall no longer be required."

All assented to this toast, and as Chris drank with the others, he could only hope with all of his heart that the words of Sir Percy Blakeney would prove to be prophetic.

THE END


Thank you so much for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed it!! Feedback is always welcome-please send any comments to DelanySis1@aol.com.

Sue :)