by Simon Hawke
“I suppose that would work,” Fitzroy said.
“It’s nice to see you’re flexible,” said Finn, sarcastically. “What about chronoplate access?”
“Can’t let you have one,” said Fitzroy. “Sorry. It would be too risky. However, I’ll try to work as close to you as possible within the limitations of our situation. If you get in a jam or have to get in touch with me for any reason, you’ve got your panic button. I assume you’ve had your implants checked?”
“Of course,” said Finn, impatiently. No soldier worth his salt would clock out on a mission without making certain that his signal implant, located subcutaneously behind his ear, was in proper working order.
“Good,” said Fitzroy. “Now there’s one more thing. When he was killed, Blakeney had just embarked upon his smuggling career. He’d had a bellyful of the beheadings and he had arranged with two of his friends, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, to smuggle the Duc de Chalis and his children out of France. You’re checked out on Ffoulkes and Dewhurst?”
Finn nodded. Since both men were known to be close friends of Blakeney’s, all available information concerning them had been included in the mission programming.
“Dewhurst is with the boat,” Fitzroy said. “Ffoulkes was the one who drove that wagon. One of the duke’s sons was on the box with Ffoulkes, the younger boy and the old man were crammed into a hollow section underneath the box. They wouldn’t be able to stay in such a cramped space for very long, so Ffoulkes probably let them out as soon as they were out of sight of the gate.”
“What about his wife?” said Finn.
“She died last year. You didn’t know that? God, they did put this together in a hurry. You’ll have to watch yourself. Now we’ve arranged for another wagon to act as a decoy, since Ffoulkes won’t be able to make very good time in that rig. That way, if there’s pursuit, we’ll have our wagon between the soldiers and Ffoulkes. They’ll catch up to a wagonful of empty wine casks, driven by an old man and a boy, and they can rip it apart to their hearts’ content and they won’t find anything. That should buy Ffoulkes all the time he needs. However, when he planned their escape, Blakeney didn’t know that he’d married a woman who had sent an entire family of aristocrats to the guillotine. So obviously, he can’t very well expect to take them aboard his yacht along with Lady Blakeney, right? I’m assuming that he made some sort of last-minute contingency plan with Ffoulkes to hide them out somewhere until he and Lady Blakeney had reached England. Then he probably intended to send the yacht back for them. Unfortunately, there’s no way of knowing exactly what sort of plans he made or where he intended to hide them. It’s all guesswork. You’ll have to improvise.”
“I’ll work it out somehow,” said Finn. “Is that it? We’re cutting it a little close, I think.”
“That’s it,” Fitzroy said. He handed Finn a little case, small enough to fit inside his pocket and disguised as a snuffbox. “You’ll find a signet ring in there. It matches Blakeney’s. Slide the bottom of the signet forward and a needle will pop up. Practice with it a few times before you put it on, so you don’t stick yourself. You’ve got several cartridges in there, all color-coded, and there’s a key inside the lid. It’s loaded for Lady Blakeney now. Stick her when you’re ready for her to come around; it should take about three seconds. After that, load it with anything you wish, just don’t give anyone a lethal dose unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. Those are the red ones, by the way. If you use one of these, it had better be as a last resort, is that clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Right. Get moving.” Fitzroy handed him the reins. “Good luck, Delaney.”
Finn swung up into the saddle and rode off at a gallop. No sooner had he arrived at the site where Fitzroy had left the coach with the lead horse tethered to a tree, than he heard the rapidly approaching sound of hoofbeats. Moving quickly, he dismounted, dropping the reins and allowing the horse to nibble at the grass. He then loosed the lead horse and climbed into the coach just as a party of six soldiers of the Republic rode into view. Finn took a deep breath. They had cut it very close, indeed.
He opened the box, removed the ring, quickly checked the needle, then slipped it onto the ring finger of his right hand. He bent over Lady Blakeney and pricked her with the needle just as the officer leading the soldiers opened the door of the coach.
“You! Come out of there!”
Finn looked over his shoulder and saw the lieutenant pointing a pistol at him.
“My wife, “ he said, anxiously. “She’s—”
“Never mind your wife, step out of the coach!”
Lady Blakeney moaned and started stirring.
“Thank God,” said Finn. “For a moment, I was afraid that—”
“Step out of the coach, I said!”
Marguerite opened her eyes and gave a start. “Percy! Lord, Percy, I’ve been shot!”
“No, my dear,” said Finn, stepping out of the coach slowly. “You only fainted.”
The soldier grabbed his arm and pulled him aside roughly, then looked inside the coach.
“If you’re looking for that ruffian,” said Finn, “I saw him leap from the coach and run off into the woods.”
The soldier spun to face him. “Where? How far back?”
“Damn me, I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Finn, producing a handkerchief and waving it in front of his nose. He hoped his imitation of Blakeney’s voice would pass. He had not had much time to practice and he wished he had Lucas Priest’s gift for mimicry. “I was hell bent for leather to try to catch this runaway coach and rescue my poor wife,” said Finn, with a touch of indignation. “I was far too anxious about her welfare to concern myself with your renegade aristocrat. He jumped off back there, somewhere.” He waved his handkerchief in the direction of the road back to Paris.
“You three,” said the officer, indicating several of his men, “ride back and comb the woods; he couldn’t have gone far.”
The men wheeled their horses and galloped off in the direction from which they came.
“Have you seen a wagon,” said the officer, “loaded with wine casks?”
“Lord, what do I know of wagons?” Finn said, rolling his eyes. “I was almost killed back there! And my wife was almost shot! There’s a hole inside the coach where the ball passed through scant inches from her head! It was a dreadful experience, quite unnerving. I fear that I won’t sleep for weeks! My insides are all in knots. This is all too much for my frail constitution. All I desire to do is get back to merry England and leave you to your Revolution. I don’t care if I never set foot on French soil again!”
“France will survive quite well without your kind, I think,” the officer said with a sneer.
“Yes, but I fear that I may not survive France,” said Finn. He leaned against the coach for support and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “Gad, what a horrible experience! That terrible man! I hope you’ll catch him and clap him in the Bastille.”
“We shall do a great deal more than that,” the soldier said. He put away his pistol, satisfied that Blakeney was no threat. “You are bound for Calais?”
“Yes, if we can arrive there safely without being killed along the way,” said Finn. “Lord only knows what dangers await us on the road! I would be most grateful if you and your men would see us to our destination safely. I would feel far more secure in the company of soldiers of the Republic.”
“Soldiers of the Republic have far more important things to do than to nursemaid weak-kneed Englishmen,” the lieutenant said, harshly. “I would advise you to be on your way and not to stop until you’ve reached Calais. I wish you a speedy crossing of the Channel and good riddance.”
The officer mounted and rode off with his two remaining men, heading away from the city on the trail of the wine wagon. Finn took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“And good riddance to you,” said Finn. “Are you all right, my dear? You gave me quite a fright.”
Lady Bl
akeney gave him an arch look. “It would appear that it does not take very much to frighten you, Percy.”
“Not much, you say? Why, having my own wife almost shot to death and myself almost being trampled by a horse and then accosted by those rough-mannered brigands who have the temerity to call themselves soldiers—why, I would say that it was much, indeed!”
As he spoke, Finn took her measure. Marguerite Blakeney was twenty-five years old, tall, and very well-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 to excuse her and to take your meal at your leisure, if you will. She is content to simply rest for tomorrow’s journey.”
Well, that settles that, thought Finn. She’ll be fast asleep when I come up. Now if I can only keep my hands off her in the middle of the night….
He thanked the girl and had her bring him a supper of cold meat, bread, and fruit. He drank more wine and began to feel relaxed for the first time that day. He purchased a clay pipe for a few pennies from the innkeeper, who overcharged him, seeing that he was wealthy, and he settled back in his chair with the long churchwarden filled with Turkish Latakia. He smoked slowly, enjoying the strong black tobacco and sipping the inn’s somewhat plebeian Bordeaux, which was nevertheless quite satisfying after the bumpy, dusty journey. He bought a few more clays and some tobacco to take along with him the following day, so that he could relax and smoke while they crossed the Channel, then he made his way upstairs.
