...sorry

I mean, three years late is better than never, right?

June, 1982

It had been some years since he had met his friend. While Andrew had spent almost his entire life in England, Percy grew up abroad, getting his education from private tutors and the occasional stays at various schools for young noblemen around Europe, as well as the brief visit at the English school where the two had met.

Despite being three years older, for some reason Percy had taken a liking to Andrew, spending most of his spare time with him. The older boy had been quiet and thoughtful, almost unnervingly so at times, a sharp contrast with his warm and open friend, yet somehow it worked. Percy had inner strength and innate compassion that Andrew deeply admired and did his best to emulate. Both had grieved, one less obviously than the other, when the Blakeneys once again moved on, seeking some place of peace for his troubled mother.

After news of the deaths of both Sir and Lady Blakeney reached him, Andrew heard little of his childhood friend. There were some sightings around Europe, as well as vague rumors about Percy's supposed lack of brains which Andrew quickly dismissed. Then he came back to England, with a new wife and a love of fashion. He had only interacted with his old friend a few times and found himself growing more and more disgusted, even as the rest of London's high society embraced the foppish Sir Percy. Where was the intuition that read one's soul with only a glance? Or the intellect that he, quiet as he was, had put to good use in the pranks the two of them would play? Every time they interacted only cemented the fact that everything Andrew had loved and admired about his friend seemed to be gone.

Still, he had loved his friend, so he might as well make one visit. Confirm once and for all that his childhood friend was gone and bid him a private farewell.

After being greeted by the servants and giving his address to the lady of the house before she left, Andrew was informed that 'the master had been away on a business trip for the past few days, but was expected at any time now if his lordship was willing to wait.' So he settled in a sitting room—one of several, he was informed by a servant named Frank—to wait. And think.

The new Lady Blakeney was French, he noted idly to himself. Everyone knew that and he had even spoken to the lady once or twice before, yet it was easy to forget as she dominated England's social circles. But here, without a crowd to distract him, it struck him as rather odd. What had Percy been doing in France, long enough to court and wed a highly sought-after woman, before he finally returned to his long-abandoned home? And at such a time too, when the whole country was in an uproar, calling perhaps not unjustly for the punishment of a once all-powerful king, while also dealing out death to many an undeserving innocent. Percy could have easily found himself in danger, perhaps in need of rescue by that mysterious figure, the Scarlet Pimpernel.

The Scarlet Pimpernel! The very name set Andrew ablaze with passion, for there was a man with true courage and nobility. An Englishman by all accounts—the new French Republic seemed sure of it, having at least once demanded England turn him over—who crossed the channel again and again, saving dozens of the French nobility and others who, by their actions or affiliations, had incurred the wrath of the Republic from the guillotine. How he wished he could join such a man!

"Sink me, if it isn't my good friend Ffoulkes."

Startled from his reverie, Andrew jolted to his feet, noticing for the first time his old friend's presence in the room. The other man was dressed in the most fashionable riding outfit he had ever seen, not a cut of fabric outdated or a line out of place. His six-foot, broad frame ought to have been intimidating, but instead only added to the bumbling, good-natured appearance, as he leaned against the doorframe.

"Blakeney," Andrew started, finding it both simple and impossible to speak coolly, with British detachment to his boyhood friend. "Good to see you."

"Marvelous seeing you here, old chap! No need to get up for my sake." With a yawn, Percy waved him back on the settee. "I should've liked to have been here when you arrived, but I had the most pressing need in town. Twas the most magnificent coat I had ever seen, and even the dratted man selling it would not keep me from it. I just had to have it, you see."

Frowning, Andrew thought of something polite to say in response to the prattle. He had just about opened his mouth before he stopped and looked at the other man again. Percy had yet to move from the doorframe, still leaning against it casually. Almost too casually.

"Are you unwell?"

"Whatever do you mean?" The Prince of Dandies laughed, the sound grating. And familiar.

"It's just that…" Andrew looked again and saw shadows under his friend's eyes. "You look awful."

"My good man, I swear this coat is the very latest in fashion. I would not dream of touching it if it was not."

He laughed again, but this time Andrew was not fooled. He had heard that laugh before, whenever too nosy schoolfellows would inquire unkindly about Blakeney's 'poor, addled mother.' Percy would sound the same laugh, as if nothing was wrong, never giving any of them the satisfaction of seeing how their words hurt.

"Be serious, Blakeney. Something is wrong with you." He stood and crossed the room, getting the closest to his friend he had been since their parting years ago.

"La, Ffoulkes, but you do say the most amusing things." The tall man leaned away slightly, now almost clutching the doorframe.

"Confound it, Percy!" Andrew almost shouted.

"Percy?" His friend smiled somewhat dopily. "I haven't… heard that in a while."

Well and truly concerned now, Andrew grabbed the other's arm. It was trembling slightly and when he looked up, the blue eyes were bloodshot.

"Come over to the sofa." He punctuated his sentence with a slight pull.

"Probably not the best idea."

Shaking his head, he pulled again, harder. The older man stumbled forward a step, then without any warning, dropped limply to the floor.

"Percy!" With a lot of effort, he managed to roll his friend over. Percy's head lolled around, even as his features were drawn, almost pained. Unsure of what to do, he called out, "Frank!"

The manservant entered the room quickly and seemed unsurprised at his master lying on the ground, muttering 'not again' before assisting Andrew in dragging the unconscious baronet to his quarters.

"Does he need a doctor? Should we call a doctor?" The young lord babbled, staring frantically at his friend out cold in his bed.

"No, his lordship is not ill, only tired."

"Are you sure?" How could Frank be so certain?

"Quite sure," the man answered, unperturbed. "Now, his lordship will likely be asleep for a good many hours, and I presume you wish to speak with him when he wakes?"

Andrew nodded, feeling rather stunned.

"Then I shall have a guest room prepared for you. I will send for you when his lordship is ready for visitors."

With trepidation, Andrew knocked on the door to Percy's study. It had been afternoon the next day before Frank gave him permission to see his friend. He was surprised, however, to be directed to the study as opposed to the bedroom. Surely Percy could not already be about, after his collapse only the day before.

"Come in."

Upon entering, he was struck by the simplicity of the room. The only thing in it resembling London's finest fop was the man himself, sitting in a chair behind the desk, looking over papers casually.

"Percy…?"

"Ffoulkes," Percy acknowledged him with a nod. "Do have a seat."

There was something about the other man's voice that compelled him to sit immediately. No one in Britain's high society had ever called the voice of Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart., as anything near commanding, yet at that moment Andrew felt he had never heard anything more authoritative. His face too was transformed, the mouth hard and thoughtful, rather than grinning inanely.

"Percy, tell me, what is going on with you? Why did you collapse?"

Now Percy did smile, but it was hardly a pleasant one. It was sarcastic, almost bitter. "You seem awfully concerned over someone who 'can hardly string two thoughts together' and has 'never thought of anything but his own comfort.'"

Andrew winced, recalling the words said by various guests at the latest social function. The speakers had been quite confident that Sir Percy was both too far away and too stupid to understand what was being said. Obviously, neither had been true. "You are my friend and you seemed in pain. Why should I not be concerned?"

"Are we still friends, Andrew?" The words were soft and the speaker looked almost shy.

If asked the same question even a day ago, Andrew would have laughed it off, trying to politely avoid the question he could have only answered honestly with 'no.' But now, knowing there was still something, even if only a little, left of the boy he had been friends with, he could only answer, "I should like to be, if you would let me."

Without a word, Percy stood up and walked over to the wall, where he stopped, facing the large painting of a woman Andrew vaguely recognized as his friend's deceased mother. He seemed to be thinking something over.

"It is hard," he spoke at last, "when there is so much you feel you must do, but no time to do it all."

Confused, Andrew stood and moved closer. "I suppose."

"You asked why I collapsed. The truth is I spent the last few days in France, and could not find time to sleep. Not when there is so much to do."

What business could he possibly have in France? Business that he found more important than sleep, no less. "What is there to do?"

"Have you given much thought to the Revolution there?" Percy asked instead of answering. "Of the hundreds executed simply because of the rank they were born with, or because they refuse to align with the bloodthirsty new regime?"

"Of course I have," Andrew replied, still not understanding. "Not a day goes by when I do not wish there was something I can do. But there is nothing one man such as myself can do."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel is only one man."

"Yes, but no one knows who he is, or even where to find him."

At this, Percy smiled and removed a ring from his finger. "Would you join him if you did know who he was? Help save innocents from the tumbrel?"

"I would."

Percy held out the ring to Andrew. "Perhaps you are right. There is little only one man can do."

Curiously, Andrew examined the ring. It was solid gold, with a flat shield engraved only with a small flower. It looked familiar, almost like a… a pimpernel. Startled, he looked back at his friend, who was still smiling.

"I think," Percy said, "the Scarlet Pimpernel could use some help."

"But you—you're the Scarlet Pimpernel?" Andrew stammered out. "How? Why?"

"People are suffering," was the simple reply. "How could I not?"

For the first time since they were boys, Andrew saw his old friend again. The strength, compassion, and wit, all of which had seemed to be lost, were once again visible, having only grown in the years they had been apart.

"Will you join me?" Percy spoke again, his voice hopeful.

Still dressed as fashionably as ever, not a line out of place, he seemed to exude power. Yet with such a great compassion, a grieving love for his fellow man. There was something so magnetic about his presence, something that commanded a loyalty and devotion Andrew could not explain.

"How could I not?"

I did my best with the research for this, but I can't guarantee anything. The league was founded on August 2, 1792, and the original book takes place in September of the same year. Since the Pimpernel was already famous by the time the book starts, I took that to mean that he had to have been operating longer than the month-ish that timeline allows. Plus it is very on-brand for Percy to start a super dangerous solo crusade. If Andrew discovered the secret and joined in June as I have him, that would give them a little under two months to go on missions and accumulate the other founding members. It also gives enough time beforehand for Percy and Marguerite to get married, come to England, and establish themselves as the darlings of England's high society.