us here.”
“I am sure that all here will join in that prayer,” the Prince of Wales said, somberly.
“Not all, Your Highness,” the comtesse said, as Chauvelin approached. She gave him an acid look.
“Your Highness,” said Chauvelin, bowing very slightly from the waist. “You are looking very well, Comtesse. The climate here seems to agree with you. I see that there is color in your cheeks.”
The comtesse ignored him. Lord Grenville looked ill at ease.
“Welcome, Citizen Chauvelin,” the Prince of Wales said, breaking the awkward silence. “I trust that our English climate will agree with you, as well. Though we may not be in sympathy with the government you represent, nevertheless you are as welcome here as are our friends, the Comtesse de Tournay and her two children, whose presence here pleases us immensely.”
“We owe our presence here to that gallant English gentleman, the Scarlet Pimpernel,” said the young vicomte loudly, with a pointed look at Chauvelin.
“Please,” said Lord Grenville, touching the boy on the elbow. “Let us try to remember that this evening is-”
“Do not concern yourself, Lord Grenville,” said Chauvelin. “I can quite understand the young man’s attitude for your fellow Englishman. The Scarlet Pimpernel is a name well known in France. We have as great an interest in this man of mystery as you English seem to have.”
“Everyone seems to be fascinated by this fellow,” Finn said. “He has become quite the rage on both sides of the Channel. I heard Sheridan say that he was thinking of writing a play about him. Perhaps he could use a bit of doggerel I’ve composed upon the subject. You might recommend it to him, Your Highness, if you find it amusing:
“We seek him here, we seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?
That demmed elusive Pimpernel.”
Grenville looked pained, but the Prince of Wales chuckled and slapped Finn on the back. “Excellent!” he said. “You must tell me how that goes again, Percy! What was it? We seek him here, we seek him there…”
Within moments, everyone was repeating it. The Blakeneyites were chanting it like a Greek chorus. Marguerite might have wondered at the imbecility of it all, but she had spotted Andrew Ffoulkes talking with Suzanne de Tournay and she felt a sudden tightness in her stomach.
Sometime during the evening, Ffoulkes would meet the Scarlet Pimpernel. If she did not help Chauvelin unmask this man, Armand was lost. If only she had been able to convince him to remain with her in England! He would now be safe and she would not be helpless in Chauvelin’s power. She would not have to betray a man whom all of England admired and respected. She watched Andrew Ffoulkes and felt that everyone could see that she was watching him. What if she could not help Chauvelin? How could she save her brother then?
Ffoulkes spoke with Suzanne for several minutes more, then parted company with her and started across the room. Marguerite’s gaze was riveted to him. As Ffoulkes crossed the ballroom, he passed Lord Hastings, who shook his hand and slapped him on the back before moving on. Marguerite stiffened. For a moment, she thought that she had seen Hastings give something to Ffoulkes. Yes, there it was, a note! Ffoulkes was putting it into his pocket, unaware that she had witnessed the brief exchange. Feeling lightheaded, Marguerite followed him. Could it be Lord Hastings? Was he the Pimpernel?
She followed Ffoulkes as he left the ballroom and entered a small drawing room which was, for the moment, empty. He closed the door behind him. Marguerite felt terrible. She was on the verge of being sick, but for Armand’s sake, she had to know what was written on that piece of paper. She waited a moment, then opened the door and entered the room. Ffoulkes was reading the note. He glanced up quickly, fearfully, then recovered and quickly lowered the note, attempting to make the gesture seem casual and inconsequential. He failed.
“Andrew! Goodness, you gave me a start,” she said. “I thought this room was empty. I simply had to get away from that throng for a short while. I was feeling a bit faint.” She sat down on the couch beside which he stood.
“Are you quite all right, Lady Blakeney?” he said. “Should I call Percy?”
“Goodness, no. Don’t make a fuss, I’m sure that I will be all right in just a moment.” She glanced around at him and saw that he was putting the note to the flame of a candle in a standing brass candelabra. She snatched it away from him before he realized what she intended.
“How thoughtful of you, Andrew,” she said, bringing the piece of paper up to her nose. “Surely your grandmother must have taught you that the smell of burnt paper was a sovereign remedy for giddiness.”
Ffoulkes looked aghast. He reached for the paper, but she held it away from him.
“You seem quite anxious to have it back,” she said, coyly. “What is it, I wonder? A note from some paramour?”
“Whatever it may be, Lady Blakeney,” Ffoulkes said, “it is mine. Please give it back to me.”
She gave him an arch look. “Why, Andrew, I do believe I’ve found you out! Shame on you for toying with little Suzanne’s affections while carrying on some secret flirtation on the side!” She stood up, holding the piece of paper close to her. “I have a mind to warn her about you before you break her heart.”
“That note does not concern Suzanne,” said Ffoulkes, “nor does it concern you. It is my own private business. I will thank you to give it back to me at once.”
He stepped forward quickly, trying to grab the note from her, but she backed away and, as if by accident, knocked over a candle stand.
“Oh! Andrew, the candles! Quick, before the drapes catch fire!”
The bottom of the drapes did begin to burn, but Ffoulkes moved quickly and smothered the flames. While he did so she quickly glanced at the note. Part of it had been burned away, but she could read:
“I start myself tomorrow. If you wish to speak with me again, I shall be in the supper room at one o’clock, precisely.”
It was signed with a small red flower.
She quickly lowered the note before Ffoulkes turned around.
“I’m sorry, Andrew,” she said. “My playful foolishness almost caused an accident. Here, have your note back and forgive me for teasing you about it.”
She held it out to him and he took it quickly, putting it to the flame once more and this time burning it completely.
“Think nothing of it,” he said. He smiled. “I should not have reacted as strongly as I did and it’s of no importance. No harm’s been done.” He smiled at her and then his look changed to one of concern. “I say, you really don’t look well.”
“It’s nothing, I’m just a little dizzy,” she said. “I think perhaps I should step outside and get a little air. Don’t bother about me, Andrew, I will be fine.”
“You’re quite certain?”
“Oh, yes, it’s really nothing. You go on, enjoy yourself. I will return presently.”
She left the drawing room and started toward the exit, making sure to catch Chauvelin’s eye on her way. He raised his eyebrows and she nodded. He returned her nod, then turned to talk to someone. Marguerite went outside.
Well, in a few moments, it will be done, she thought. Chauvelin will have the information that will help him learn the true identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel and Armand will be saved. And I will have sent another man to his death. She heard a step behind her and turned to face Chauvelin.
“You’re being uncharacteristically silent tonight,” Finn said to Marguerite as they drove back to Richmond in their coach. He had resolved to face his feelings for her head-on and deal with the situation as best he could. The relationship between them had warmed over the past several days, but now it was Marguerite who was acting withdrawn. “Is something wrong?”
She hesitated for a moment, then the words all came out in a torrent.
“It’s Armand,” she said. “He is in terrible danger and I don’t know what I can do to save him. I fear for his life.”
Finn frowned. “You seem quite friendly with the French representative, Chauvelin. Perhaps he can do something?”
