outside the door, her back pressed against the wall, her head cocked as she listened intently for any sound coming from within. There was none. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a length of wire. Pulling on a pair of leather gloves, she shaped it carefully, then slipped it through the crack in the door, maneuvering it so that it bent itself around the wooden bar on the other side and then poked out through on her side again. Very carefully, she grabbed both ends and slowly, using gentle, steady pressure, worked the bar back bit by bit. When she was done, she replaced the wire back into her pocket and took a deep breath. Crouching on her knees, away from the front of the door, she reached out and quickly pulled it open, then jerked back.
A beam shot out the door at about the level her chest would have been had she been standing. It began to burn its way through the thick wall opposite the door. She had perhaps a few seconds in which to act. Staying very low, she dove through the door beneath the beam, spotted the assembled chronoplate in the center of the room and quickly moved toward it. She didn’t know the failsafe code for this particular unit, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t need it. She kicked at the control panel, then ran out the door as the defense system shut itself off. She knew she had only seconds left before the failsafe was triggered. She was at the top of the stairs when the force of the explosion picked her up and threw her into the wall just above the landing. Stunned, she managed to pick herself up and get down to the first floor, then out the door.
A crowd was beginning to gather, attracted by the noise of the explosion and the smoke pouring through the hole in the wall on the second floor. Andre pushed her way through, grateful for the fact that none of her bones seemed to have broken. Her face was bleeding from her having struck the wall and her chest and head hurt. Perhaps she had sustained a slight concussion. Mongoose, however, had more serious problems.
If he was lucky, he had not been able to react to his alarm quickly enough to activate his remote clockback unit. Otherwise, he had either been caught in the explosion when he materialized or else he would never materialize anywhere, being trapped forever in the limbo soldiers called “the dead zone.” For the sake of agent Cobra, Andre hoped that Mongoose was still alive. Personally, she did not much care one way or the other.
The Comtesse de Tournay was an elegant old woman who conveyed no impression that she had narrowly escaped France with her life. To look at her, one would not think that her husband still remained behind in Paris, a hunted enemy of the state. She arrived in Dover attired in the height of fashion, carrying her elaborately coiffed white head high and sniffing with disdain at the fishy smell of the seacoast town. Her son, the young vicomte, was barely eighteen years old and, like his mother, he carried himself in a grand manner, back ramrod-straight and shoulders thrown back. He walked with a cocky swagger and kept his left hand casually resting on the pommel of his sword. Suzanne de Tournay, on the other hand, seemed markedly unaffected, by comparison. She spoke English better than either her mother or her brother. While they had been content to remain in their cabins on the Day Dream during the crossing, she had kept company on deck with Andrew Ffoulkes. With her hat held in her hand, she had allowed the wind to play havoc with her hair as she breathed in the salty air and gloried in their newfound freedom while, at the same time, she shared her concern for her father with Ffoulkes, her rescuer, who had become totally captivated by her.
As they entered the Fisherman’s Rest together with Ffoulkes and Dewhurst, Jellyband seemed to be everywhere at once bowing, wringing his hands anxiously, looking to their comfort and barking orders at his serving staff.
“Well,” said the comtesse, speaking English with a thick French accent, “I must admit, this is not quite the hovel I imagined it to be when I saw it from the outside. Still, I trust that we will not be remaining long?”
“Only long enough to have a bite to eat and arrange for a coach to London, Madame la Comtesse,” said Dewhurst.
“In that case, the sooner we can dine and be on our way, the better,” she said, haughtily. “We have been subjected to quite enough indignities. Please do not misunderstand, Lord Dewhurst; I am most grateful to you and this gallant Scarlet Pimpernel for delivering us from persecution. However, if I had to spend one more night in that frightful, smelly little shack, I think I would have gone quite mad.”
“It was not so bad, Mama,” Suzanne said, a bit embarrassed by her mother’s remark. “Anyway, all that is behind us now. We are in England! Soon we shall be meeting many others like ourselves, who have found new homes here.”
“Indeed,” the old woman said, adding another contemptuous sniff. “I am quite sure that it will not all be entirely uncivilized. Still, there is one recent emigre I hope that I shall never meet. Have you gentlemen ever heard of a woman named Marguerite St. Just?”
Dewhurst and Ffoulkes glanced at each other uneasily.
“Everyone in London knows Lady Blakeney,” said Andrew Ffoulkes. “She and Sir Percy are the leaders of London society. Everyone admires and respects her.”
“Well, I, for one, do not admire and respect her,” said the comtesse, stiffly. “What is more, if she is the type of person you enshrine in your society, I fear that I cannot say much good about it. We knew each other, once. She and my Suzanne attended school together. However, it seems that she preferred to learn her lessons at the hands of the Revolutionary tribunal. While our world was collapsing all around us, she helped to pull it down.”
“Really, I’m sure that Lady Blakeney-” Ffoulkes began but the comtesse interrupted him.
“Your Lady Blakeney was responsible for the death of the Marquis de St. Cyr. If you prefer to forget such things here in England, I can assure you that I recall them quite vividly. We are in England now and we are grateful for your English hospitality. We shall try not to abuse it. However, should I encounter Marguerite St. Just, I shall refuse to acknowledge her existence.”
Ffoulkes leaned close to Dewhurst and whispered in his ear. “This is a most unfortunate turn of events, Tony,” he said. “Lady Blakeney is due to arrive here at any moment. Percy’s ridden out to meet her coach.”
Dewhurst nodded. “With any luck, we can get them upstairs to refresh themselves and then try to head Percy off. It wouldn’t do to have-”
At that moment, a coach was heard pulling up outside. Seconds later, the door to the Fisherman’s Rest opened and Marguerite Blakeney entered.
“Lord, I’m famished!” she said. “The air in here smells quite delicious.” She saw the others and her eyes widened in surprise. “Andrew! Tony! What a delightful surprise! And is that…? It is you, Suzanne! Whatever are you doing here in England?”
“Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman,” said the comtesse, pointedly looking away from Marguerite.
For a moment, Marguerite looked both stunned and hurt by this rejection; but understanding quickly dawned and she recovered, albeit a bit shakily.
“Well! What bug bit you, I wonder?” she said, attempting to sound casual.
The young vicomte stood up, drawing himself up to appear as tall as he possibly could. “My mother clearly does not wish to speak with you, madame,” he said. “We have no desire to socialize with traitors!”
“See here, now,” Ffoulkes began, but at that moment, the door opened once again and Finn walked in, shaking the dust off of his coat.
“Begad, what have we here? “ he said, taking in the momentarily frozen tableau.
Marguerite smiled a bit crookedly. “Oh, nothing very serious, Percy,” she said, lightly, “only an insult to your wife’s honor.”
“Odd’s life, you don’t say!” said Finn. “Who would be so reckless as to take you on, my dear?”
The young vicomte approached him, taking a jaunty stance with his hand upon the pommel of his sword. “The lady is referring to my mother and myself, monsieur,” he said. “As any apology would be quite out of the question, I am prepared to offer you the usual reparation between men of honor.”
Finn stared down at the boy, putting a look of astonishment upon his face. “Good Lord! Where on earth did you learn to speak English? It’s really quite remarkable. I wish I could speak your language as well, but I’m afraid that the proper accent is quite beyond me!”
The lad looked at him with irritation. “I am still waiting for your reply, monsieur.”
Finn glanced at Ffoulkes and Dewhurst in a puzzled fashion. “My reply? What the devil is this young fellow talking about?”
“My sword, monsieur!” the vicomte said in exasperation. “I offer you my sword!”
“Begad,” said Finn, “what good is your sword to me? I never wear the damned things, they’re forever getting in the way and poking people. Damned nuisance, if you ask me.”
“I believe the young man means a duel, my husband,” Marguerite said.
