IX. – An Exquisite Ally
Lady Blakeney was such a wonderful, understanding creature. Yvonne noticed that she had begun boasting of Anthony in the Duc's presence, as though determined to make the older aristocrat like the young Englishman. Yvonne was surprised by this at the first; but then, when the woman's idiotic, foppish dandy of a husband began to do the same thing, she wondered if there were not some plot amongst the brilliant elite of English society to play the matchmaker and whisk her into Anthony's arms, away from the coldness of Martin-Roget.
Somehow, they even managed to convince her father to let her dance with Anthony at the balls and parties, though the Duc de Kernogan was always highly reluctant and extremely annoyed to grant his approval to such a caper. And if Martin-Roget happened to be present, the banker would prowl the edges of the ballroom until the orchestra ceased their music, and take Yvonne's arm the moment she left the dance floor – often snatching her away from Anthony, quite literally.
But then, always, sometime during the night, there would come a moment when lazy Sir Percy Blakeney or one of his many friends would engage Monsieur Martin-Roget and the Duc in a conversation or game of cards, and Lady Blakeney or Lady Ffoulkes would rush to rescue Yvonne and lead her to some dark, snug recess – to a waiting, eager man who showered her with adoration and love.
And she would have continued believing it to be part of a beautiful, delightful fairytale, until the dreadful evening at a ball, when Lady Blakeney finally revealed the truth.
Oh, the truth! Such a terrible and beautiful object! She now understood how something could be both wonderful and terrifying at the same time.
Before a blazing fire, on a plush, velvet settee, Marguerite had explained calmly, quietly, and urgently that nothing was quite what Yvonne thought. Martin-Roget was not a wealthy banker who had escaped the Revolution to London, but instead a horrid fiend. Yvonne had listened, paling visibly as her friend carefully told of what the mask really hid.
She'd had to clench her hands in her lap to keep from visibly trembling, to keep from pressing her palms to her ears and screaming as the old panic and fear bubbled within her. Martin-Roget, the man who had won her father's favor, was none other than the devil who had terrorized her when she had been but a girl! The same man whose memory plagued her with nightmares and made her keep her distance from other, nicer men by insisting they were just like he was.
But she had little time to dwell on such horrors. The fact that Martin-Roget (no, Pierre Adet!) had been touching her, planning to marry her, wooing her father for so long now, was wretchedly nauseating, yet dear Marguerite did not give her time to reflect. Instead, she promptly explained in a low voice that there was indeed a solution to the hellish future of Yvonne becoming such a man's wife and enduring the torture he had planned for her out of revenge and hatred, before killing her. Marguerite vowed to help protect Yvonne, and insisted that this plan be carried out immediately for Yvonne's own safety.
The plan was thus: according to the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel, whom all of English society twittered on about, Yvonne must wed before her father could bind her to Martin-Roget. And the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would help protect her. She must, Marguerite had whispered emphatically, marry Lord Dewhurst immediately. Anthony was, as it turned out, a member of the very League and had pledged himself to the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Yvonne's breathing had grown shallow by that time, as she tried to wrap her thoughts about so many new pieces of information, but when the lady mentioned her dear admirer, she almost felt faint. Marry Anthony? But she was merely sixteen! She would be going against her father's wishes! Were she still in France, marriage outside of her father's approval would be illegal! She could even be killed for such a thing! And then there was the fact that Marguerite had told her that Anthony was a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel! He was one of those brave souls who rescued men, women, and children from the very clutches of Death! Her adoring, shy lover was so much more than she had imagined!
Marguerite had seen the fear and confusion, and she suddenly grasped Yvonne's hands tightly, bringing her back to the whirling reality.
"Do you love Tony, chéri?" she'd whispered urgently.
"Oui, mais…"
"Then there is nothing else. He loves you, as well. He will be a good husband – the best husband you could dream of! You must believe me. He will never stop cherishing you, protecting you, loving you. He's ready to help you even now, to save you from death. He will ask your consent formally, as soon as we finish our conversation, because that is what society demands, and then you must be ready to leave with Lady Ffoulkes at midnight. She and her husband will ensure you arrive safely at the church before dawn for the ceremony. Your father cannot object to you leaving with her, and once he discovers the truth, he will adjust. Slowly, perhaps. But it is better than a torturous death. Now. Go to the east boudoir. It is the most secluded. My husband and His Highness are keeping your father occupied. Lord Tony is waiting for you. You must be strong, now."
Terrified, Yvonne had nodded and risen.