by Shana Galen
Hugh clasped her hand tightly. “Don’t do this. We can have a life in England.”
“I hope we may someday. But right now my life is here.” It pained her, but she pulled her hand away. “I must dress. Sir Percy and I must make plans.”
She felt Hugh’s gaze burn the skin of her back as she walked away.
Angelette did not see Hugh the rest of the night. She assumed he slept. He had almost nothing to pack for the journey in the morning. She had not wanted their last night to end as it had. She had planned to tell him in the morning that she had not changed her mind and could not travel with him. The arrival of the baron had ruined her plans, but she could not fault Sir Percy. She could only pray he and the rest of the group would arrive safely in England.
In the kitchen, she sipped coffee alone. She was not tired, and if she had tried to sleep, she would have only been kept awake by worry that the vainqueurs would discover where the baron had fled, knock on the door, and demand she deliver the baron to them. And so she was still awake at daybreak when Sir Percy arrived with the coaches. He brought the conveyances into the small yard in the back rather than leaving them on the Rue Saint-Honoré, as was customary. But the de Mervilles did not wish for attention surrounding their departure.
While the coachmen saw to the horses, Angelette beckoned Sir Percy inside. “Coffee, Sir Percy?”
“Sink me, no.” He wore a blue morning coat with blue breeches and a yellow waistcoat embroidered with the red pimpernel flowers he seemed to so enjoy. His hair was pulled back into a queue and not powdered, but he looked freshly pressed and rested, though she was certain he hadn’t slept any more than she.
“You are earlier than expected.”
“Better to be early than late, I always say. The vicomte and Lord Daventry will be ready soon enough.”
“May I speak with you, Sir Percy?” she asked, gesturing toward the table. He raised a brow, but sat opposite her, seeming unsurprised by the gesture.
“You want to tell me you are not leaving for London. Eavesdropping is very bad form, but I’m afraid I could not help overhearing.”
“That is part of it,” she acknowledged, seating herself across from him. “I am staying in Paris—in this house—and I hope you will allow me to help you with your work.”
“Your aid would be much appreciated, madame. As a foreigner, my neighbors take note of my comings and goings. That is why I did not bring the baron to my lodgings. This house is a godsend.” His tone had grown quite serious now. “And, forgive me if this is too bold, I understand your late husband was quite wealthy. Forged papers are not inexpensive.”
Angelette nodded. “I understand and when the uproar in the city dies down I will see my solicitor and obtain funds for our cause. I only wish I could do more. Lord Daventry imports wine and has contacts all over the countryside. I had hoped I might persuade him to help.”
“He may yet change his mind.”
Angelette smiled, but she felt no hope. “Until that time,” she said, “we will need allies. English allies.”
“I know several men in my club who have been waiting for the right time to act.”
“I would say that time is now. When you are able to get papers, I would like you to travel to London and approach these men, ask them to form a...a league of sorts.”
He nodded. “Many will flee France as a result of the riots yesterday. I heard the king’s brothers plan to depart as soon as possible. But many others will stay and will need help in the future.”
“It must be a secret league,” she said. “No one in France or England must know who ranks among the members.”
“Or the identity of our leader.” He nodded at her, and she felt her cheeks heat.
“I am not the leader.”
“I beg to differ, but I think it best to protect you. If I go to London to recruit the members of our league, then it will be assumed I am the de facto leader. If at some point our league is discovered and I am sought or taken, you will still be free to continue our operations.”
“I agree secrecy is of the utmost importance. Cleverness as well. We must find masters of disguise and forgery. Men and women who are not afraid to risk everything to save the lives of the innocent.”
Sir Percy tapped a finger on his jaw. “We need a name, I think. The League to Save France?”
Angelette wrinkled her nose. “I thought the idea was not to be discovered. The name must not reveal who we are. How about the League...” She looked about for some sort of inspiration, and her gaze landed on his waistcoat. “The League of the Pimpernel. No, the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
He smiled. “That’s perfect! I only wish I could begin recruiting members now.”
“Perhaps you can,” Hugh said. He stepped into the doorway, and Angelette started with surprise.
“How long have you been there?” she asked. Had he heard all of their plan? She would have to be more careful in the future. And now she would have to change the name of their league. It wasn’t that she did not trust Hugh, but he was not one of them.
“Long enough to know that you need me.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
Hugh gestured to Sir Percy. “Clearly Blakeney needs to travel to London as soon as possible. In order to do so, he will need his papers. I propose Sir Percy depart with the baron and the de Mervilles and the baron use my papers to escape to London.”
“My lord, you understand that would leave you trapped in Paris.” Sir Percy rose.
Hugh’s gaze met Angelette’s. “I understand.”
“I don’t know that’s wise,” Sir Percy said. “I have contacts and know forgers. I can get new papers relatively quickly. It may take weeks for me to return and procure papers for you.”
Hugh shrugged, his gaze never leaving Angelette. “Then I wait weeks.”
“And what will you do if the people form mobs as they did before? They may begin murdering the nobility.”
“I’m not wholly without resources,” Hugh said. “As Angelette has mentioned, I know wine merchants all over the countryside. Most are loyal to me and would hide me or friends of mine if need be. Not to mention, wine barrels would make an excellent tool for slipping people out of the city.”
“You would help me?” Angelette gestured to Sir Percy. “Help us, I should say.”
“I too have funds,” Hugh went on. “And ships. It might be useful to have our own ships rather than relying on French captains.”
“That is all very true, and I would be glad to have you,” Sir Percy said. “But you did not answer the comtesse’s question.”
Hugh looked at her again. “You asked if I would help you.”
She nodded.
“The answer depends.”
“On?”
“On your answer.” He sank to one knee, and she inhaled sharply. “Angelette, will you marry me?”
“You can’t mean that,” she sputtered. “I’ve been nothing but trouble. You want to return to England. You cannot wish to tie yourself to me and Paris.”
“I do want to return to England, but I realized something else over the past few hours—I want to be wherever you are. London. Paris. Hell.”
She smiled, tears blurring her vision.
“I will follow you anywhere. You’ve utterly ruined me for any other woman.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered, her voice failing her.
“Say yes!” Sir Percy all but shouted.
She laughed. “Yes!”
Hugh rose and took her into his arms. He held her tightly, then lowered his mouth to kiss her. She had intended only to kiss him back briefly, but once their lips met she couldn’t seem to let go. After a moment she heard Sir Percy clear his throat. “I had better return to my lodgings and gather what I need. Tell the de Mervilles—never mind. I shall tell them myself.”
Hugh pulled back and held her face in his hands. “I cannot believe you said yes.”
“I cannot believe you are staying.”
“I could never leave you, even if it means I must join the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, which, by the way, needs a better name.”
“The League of the Yellow Daisy?”
“I was thinking something that doesn’t reference flowers.”
“Really? I rather like it.”
He sighed. “You are in charge.”
“That’s right. I am.” And she kissed him again.
Thirteen
Thomas wrinkled his brow and sat back in the chair across from his father. At some point during the tale, Thomas had poured himself a drink, but he hadn’t consumed much—except when his father went on about how beautiful his mother had been or that sappy story of how he’d proposed marriage. He’d needed a large swallow then.
“I don’t think I quite understand,” Thomas said. “You knew Sir Percy, and he began the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, but he was not the person in charge of the league.”
His father removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked almost like a man emerging from a dream. “That’s correct. He took the credit and the fall, when necessary, but in truth, he was only one of the members of the league. Granted, he was quite important. As was Ffoulkes, of course.”
“Then were you the Scarlet Pimpernel?” Thomas asked. “You seemed to be saying...that is, in the story it sounded as though...”
“As though your mother was the Scarlet Pimpernel?”
Thomas couldn’t even manage to nod.
“I’d say that was correct. Wouldn’t you agree, mon ange?”
Thomas jumped to his feet as his mother moved across the room. He wasn’t certain when she’d entered the library. He certainly hadn’t heard the door open or her skirts rustle. She stopped to give Thomas a kiss on the cheek, smelling of apples and the countryside as she always had. Her dark hair had a bit of gray in it now and a few wrinkles appeared at the creases of her eyes and mouth. She was almost always smiling. The viscountess looked up at him. “How lovely of you to visit, Thomas. You’re not in some sort of trouble, are you?”
Thomas sighed. “Why does everyone assume I am in trouble? I only wished to speak with Father.”
She turned to smile at her husband. “About the Scarlet Pimpernel of all things? That’s ancient history.”
“Then why do I feel like I don’t know the whole story?”
“I never knew you cared.” She moved around the desk where his father stood and motioned for him to sit. Then she situated herself on the arm of his chair. “You were always much keener to talk of horses than history. In fact, we once had a letter from Eton where the dean despaired—”
“I’m interested now, Mother,” Thomas said with no little exasperation. “Father claims you were the Scarlet Pimpernel. Is he trying to bamboozle me?”
“No,” she said. “It’s true, though I certainly didn’t work alone. In a sense no one person was the Scarlet Pimpernel. We all were. But I suppose I founded the league, along with your father and Sir Percy. And, of course, I devised the moniker, though Sir Percy is largely to thank for that as well.”
Thomas stared at his mother. She had always been happy to stay at home and play or read to Thomas and his sisters. The most adventurous thing he’d ever seen her do was go for a picnic when the skies looked like rain. And she was a woman! Women did not rescue prisoners from the blade of the guillotine or sneak them out of Paris in the dead of night. How could his mother, the woman who had tucked him in at night and fretted because he didn’t wear mittens in cold weather, possibly be the Scarlet Pimpernel?
Thomas straightened his coat. “I think I had better return to Town.”
His mother stood. “You won’t stay to dinner? Your sisters will be so disappointed.”
He had intended to stay to dinner, but now he had no appetite. His mother...?
Thomas shook his head. “I had better start back.”
“Well, at least ask Cook to send some food along with you. We can go to the kitchens and pack something for the journey.”
His father wrapped an arm about her waist. “In a moment.”
She gave the viscount an indulgent smile. “Very well.” She looked at Thomas again. “I will meet you in the kitchen shortly.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Mother. And, thank you for the...story, Father.”
“Come and visit again soon,” his father said.
“And next time stay to dinner and to see your sisters,” his mother added.
Thomas went to the door and stepped outside. As he closed the door behind him, he stole a look into the library. His father had pulled his mother onto his lap, and she was laughing, her arms about his neck.
“I don’t think he believed me,” his father was saying.
“Sometimes I hardly believe it myself. We were young and reckless.”
“You were reckless. I wanted to keep you alive so I could bring you back to England with me.”
“And in the end you had your way.”
Thomas leaned a shoulder against the door’s casement. He’d always found the affection between his parents vaguely nauseating. He didn’t mind it so much today. In fact, he rather envied it.
“Do you regret it?” his mother was asking. “The years in Paris, the constant danger, the hours spent hiding and plotting and running?”
“Not a single minute. You?”
She shook her head. “I remember the looks of gratitude on the faces of those we saved. I’d do it all over again.”
“And that, mon ange, is why I love you.”
Her answer was a kiss.
Thomas moved away from the door then. He’d return to London and find Ffoulkes. Surely there must be other untold stories of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Perhaps poetry was not his calling. He’d always wanted to write a work of fiction...
He heard his mother laugh again, and Thomas paused just before a painting of his mother that hung in an all-but-forgotten alcove. She was young in the painting, seated outdoors in a country setting under a large tree. Her cheeks were pink, as was her dress, and she’d been picking flowers. On her arm rested a woven basket overflowing with flowers. Red flowers...
Thomas didn’t have to open a book on botany to know what he would learn. How had he never seen it before? Those flowers were, quite obviously, scarlet pimpernels. What else had he missed? What other secrets hid in plain sight? He looked back at his father’s library. Unplumbed depths indeed. He’d have to come home more often.
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Paris terrified her. The daily executions, the violence in the streets, the National Guard, who ransacked houses nightly in search of royalist sympathizers. Honoria Blake hated Paris.
And yet, she couldn’t seem to make herself leave.
She had no one but herself to blame for the fact that she wasn’t tucked in safe under the roof of her flat in London. No one but herself to blame that she was stuffing feathers back into a mattress that had been bayoneted and all but destroyed by the Guard not once but three times in the past month she’d been here. No one to blame but herself that she was tired and on edge.
No but herself and, perhaps in part, Monsieur Palomer.
Hiding three men of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel under the floorboards in her bedchamber for half the night could have that effect on a person. Especially when Lord Anthony Dewhurst, Lord Edward Hastings, and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were among Robespierre and his Committee of Public Safety’s most wanted.
No one suspected two women—herself and Alexandra Martin—of being in league with the Pimpernel. The soldiers searched the safe house—could she call it a safe house when it had been searched three times in thirty days?—never pausing to consider that two members of the league they sought stood directly before them.
Honoria could not h
ave said precisely what Alexandra did for the Pimpernel. She suspected Alex ferried aristos through Paris and into the countryside so they could be taken to safety in England. Alex was also in charge of disguises, and she had a remarkable talent there. She could make a large, dark man like Dewhurst look old and decrepit. She could make the burly Scot Mackenzie look like a woman—not an attractive woman but not an ugly one either. And when Alex wasn’t leading aristos through the catacombs running under the city of Paris, she was performing on the stage. She had a small part in a production of Le Jugement dernier des roi at The People’s Theater.
Honoria sneezed as she stuffed the last feather into the mattress. It had taken all morning but the room was finally put to rights. She didn’t even want to think about the mess awaiting her in the drawing room. Thank God all the papers and correspondence the League needed were hidden in a false panel in the dining room wall. Not only would it have doomed them if the soldiers had discovered the documents, she would be the one cleaning up the shredded foolscap before she, too, was dragged to prison.
Honoria’s work for the Pimpernel was neither as exciting nor as dangerous as that of the others. Her skills were in forgery and document creation. She could sign Robespierre’s name better than he could, and the papers she made for the aristos escaping Paris looked as authentic as any issued by the Committee for Public Safety. She could duplicate the stamp, the embossing, and every other minute detail.
The nature of her work meant she rarely left the safe house. For the most part, she did not mind. The safe house was, as the name would suggest, relatively safe. But in the back of her mind one small point niggled. She hadn’t begged the Pimpernel to bring her to Paris so she could be safe. She would have been safe in her little room in the back of Montagu House. She could have continued making false passports for him there.
But Honoria had wanted adventure. She’d wanted to make a difference. She’d wanted to experience life. She’d been hiding from the age of fifteen. Now, at the age of six and twenty, she wasn’t afraid any longer. But she was still hiding behind severe hairstyles, drab shapeless dresses, and enormous glasses she did not need. Even with all of that, Dewhurst had described her as “too demmed pretty to go out alone,” and Ffoulkes had said she might go out at night but “in the daylight you’d draw too much attention.”