proportioned with an ample bosom, a trim waist and long, slender legs, one of which was briefly visible as she descended from the coach.
Her bright blue eyes met Finn’s as she attempted to effect repairs upon her coiffure, the lustrous auburn hair having been disarranged while she was jostled about inside the coach. She was even lovelier in person, for the holographic image of her Finn had seen had not captured her voice and its inflections, her mannerisms, and it had caught only a hint of her earthy sensuality. There was, however, a certain air of hostility about her, testimony to the deteriorating relationship between herself and Blakeney.
She had a bit of the gamin in her, Finn saw, though it did not detract in the least from her beauty. Rather, it enhanced it. Her facial expressions betrayed pride and stubbornness and although she hid it well, Finn could see that she had been hurt by Blakeney. Undoubtedly, she felt rejected, though Finn had no way of knowing whether or not the St. Cyr affair had ever been discussed between them or if Blakeney had simply accepted it as a matter of course and, having been satisfied that it was true, had locked it away inside himself like a guilty secret, never to be spoken of or even referred to. He decided, for the sake of prudence, to adopt the latter attitude, unless Marguerite brought the matter up herself. He also decided to play it very close to the vest, for Marguerite’s eyes were shrewd and observant as she regarded him with a faintly puzzled air.
“Are you quite well, my husband?” she said, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Somehow, you don’t sound quite yourself.”
“I’m as well as could be expected for a man who’s come so near to death,” he said, leaning back against the coach and shutting his eyes as he fanned himself with his handkerchief. “Faith, my dear, you must have the courage of a lion! That pistol ball could not have passed but a hair’s breadth from your head and there you stand, calm as can be, asking me if I am well! Would that I were made of such stern stuff, my heart would not then be pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil!”
“Well, then when your heart has stopped its fearsome pounding, perhaps we could continue on our journey,” Marguerite said. “We shall not make Calais before tomorrow, even if we drive hard all the way.” She glanced up at the empty box and sighed. “I fear that you will have to play the coachman. It appears that our fainthearted driver was frightened even more than you were.”
“That’s the trouble with these new ‘citizens,’” said Finn. “They put their own petty concerns above their duty. Well, it appears that there’s nothing for it. I shall have to drive, then. With any luck, we will make Amiens tonight and reach Calais tomorrow. Are you quite certain that you’re up to a hard ride? We could travel at an easy pace, but I’m suddenly very anxious to go on with all dispatch. I fear that I shan’t feel safe until we’re on board the Day Dream.”
Marguerite smiled, wryly. “Well, then I shall muster up my lion’s courage and steel myself for the dangers of our journey.” Her voice fairly dripped with sarcasm. “If you would be so kind, Percy, as to assist me back into the coach?”
Finn gave her his arm and helped her up, then closed the door and mounted up into the box. He whipped up the horses and drove the coach back onto the road. He drove at a brisk pace and, within fifteen minutes or so, the coach came within sight of the soldiers once again. There were only three of them, the officer and his two men, the others no doubt still beating the brush for the nonexistent ci-devant aristo. Finn saw that the soldiers had caught up to Fitzroy’s decoy wine wagon. They had pulled it off to the side of the road, where the old man stood beside his young “son,” wringing his hands and wailing as the soldiers tore the wagon apart board by board, searching for the Duc de Chalis. The officer looked up and gave Finn a scornful glance as Finn gave him a cheery wave as the coach passed by.
It was already night when they reached Amiens and the horses were all done in. Finn took a room for them at an inn and saw to it that the coach and horses would be stabled for the night and made ready for them early the next morning. Marguerite went up to the room to freshen up while Finn stayed downstairs and drank some wine.
So far, so good, he thought. Marguerite had accepted him as Blakeney, though there had never really been any question about that. He was, after all, the spitting image of Sir Percy Blakeney now and he had been prepared as thoroughly as possible to play the role. For Marguerite to suspect him of being an impostor was impossible. However, he would take Fitzroy’s advice and tread with care.
There was a great deal to be done. Percy Blakeney had spent most of his young life away from England. He would be known at court, of course, since the late Algernon Blakeney had been a peer of the realm and the family holdings were extensive. Blakeney was one of the richest men in England. That, in itself, would be enough to secure his place in court society, but it would not be enough for this scenario.
Finn would have to establish Blakeney’s character in such a manner that he would never be suspected of being the Scarlet Pimpernel. He would also have to make certain that a distance would remain between himself, as Blakeney, and Marguerite. Otherwise, he might not be able to function as the Pimpernel. Finn could count on Lucas and Andre to help him in his efforts to join Ffoulkes and Dewhurst as the first members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Beyond that, he would be working in the dark.
At the height of Blakeney’s career, the League had boasted some nineteen or twenty members. History was inexact as to the figure. That, alone, could result in problems. What might happen if he did not recruit into the League someone the real Blakeney would have recruited? What would occur if he recruited someone who had not, originally, been in the League at all? Due to the inertia of the timeflow, he had a certain flexibility; otherwise it would not have been possible to effect adjustments. However, given this particular scenario, there were plenty of possibilities for things to go wrong. It was not the first time Delaney had found himself working in a period that suffered from inadequate prior documentation. He hadn’t liked it then and he did not much like it now. He liked being saddled with Lady Blakeney even less.
Unless Fitzroy contacted him with further information, he could rely on Ffoulkes and Dewhurst to advise him on whom to recruit into the League. But Lady Blakeney could pose a formidable problem in more ways than one. She was intelligent and sharp and, although the place of a woman in the 18th century denied her a role in much of the pursuits of her husband, he would have to act in such a manner that her curiosity would not be aroused. To this end, he could utilize the recent rift between Sir Percy Blakeney and his wife, building upon it so that he would become the sort of husband whose wife found him tiresome and unattractive. That would not be very difficult to accomplish. Marguerite was quite attractive and already had a reputation as a well-known actress and hostess. It would be a simple matter to introduce her into London society, taking a back seat as the fashionably dull and foolish fop while Marguerite had the spotlight to herself. She would quickly become the center of attention in any gathering and in no time at all she would acquire her own circle of friends and admirers, who would keep her busy while he spirited aristos out of France.
Yet, there was the very real problem of his own reaction to Marguerite. From the very first moment he set eyes upon her, Finn found himself irresistibly attracted to the woman. To remain aloof and unconcerned with her would not be easy. When it came to matters of the flesh, discipline had never been Delaney’s strong suit. As he sat alone at a corner table in the inn, nursing his wine, he contemplated the possibility of bedding her that night.
After all, he was her husband. She might welcome a sudden thaw in their relationship and the situation was quite conducive to it. They had just been through a harrowing experience together, the sort of thing that raises the adrenaline and leads people to seek pleasant release in sexual activity. One night, when matters of the preceding day led them to rediscover the joys they knew when first they wed, one night, what harm could it do? The next day, he could resume the status quo, acting embarrassed, awkward, perhaps a little angered at having given in to the pressures of the moment. Things like that happened all the time.
But, no. It would not be wise. She already bore resentment toward her husband, whose ardor had so considerably cooled and whose devotion had become little more than a matter of form. To start something now, only to end it just as abruptly, as necessity dictated, would only make matters that much worse. He needed Marguerite to be bored with Blakeney, not furious with him. He would have to put his lust aside, something that never had been easy and would be that much more difficult, due to the fact that he would have to share a bed with her.
“Damn,” Finn mumbled softly, to himself, “I should have thought to take separate rooms for us.”
“Sir?” said a soft voice at his side. He turned to see a young serving girl who stood hesitantly by the table, smiling awkwardly.
“Yes, what is it?”
“The lady bid me tell you that she is quite exhausted from the journey and will not sup tonight. She begs you
