TITLE: The Magnificent Pimpernel
AUTHOR: Sue
EMAIL: [email protected]
RATING: PG
FEEDBACK: Greatly appreciated as always!!
ARCHIVE: No, thanks!
UNIVERSE: The Magnificent Seven/The Scarlet Pimpernel
TYPE: Gen
MAIN CHARACTERS: Chris, Seven
GENRE: Gen
PAIRING: None
STATUS: New/Complete

AU CLOSED OR OPEN?: Wide open!

WARNINGS: None

SUMMARY: England, 1793: The grieving widower Sir Christopher Larabee is called upon to gather a group of men to assist the Scarlet Pimpernel, a mysterious Englishman working in disguise to rescue innocents from the guillotine during the French Revolution.

DISCLAIMER: The characters of the Magnificent Seven are owned by MGM, CBS, and Trilogy. The characters and settings connected to the novel and musical versions of 'The Scarlet Pimpernel' were created by Baroness Orczy and Nan Knighton. I am making no money from their use.

AU TYPE: This story was written in response to the January M7 fic challenge, in which writers were asked to rewrite a movie or TV show using the M7 characters. While there have been several 'Scarlet Pimpernel' movies, this version actually is based on the characters as presented in the1997 musical. I've hopefully included enough explanation so that you don't need to be familiar with either the book or the musical to understand the story. However, more information never hurts! :) So we move on to...

A BIT OF BACKGROUND: 'The Scarlet Pimpernel' is the story of a wealthy Englishman who, along with his friends, rescues imperiled Frenchmen, women and children from the guillotine during the French Revolution. In order to protect himself and his men, he adopts a disguise, that of The Scarlet Pimpernel, named after a small red roadside flower. Written first as play in 1904 and turned into a novel the next year, 'The Scarlet Pimpernel' was the first work of fiction to give its hero a secret identity, marking itself as the forerunner to other 'secret identity' heroes such as Superman, Batman, Zorro, etc. Several more 'Pimpernel' books followed the first one.

There have been many versions of this story over the years; my favorite is the 1997 musical by Nan Knighton and Frank Wildhorn, so that's the version I based this story on. (Just the characterizations-this is not a musical fic! :) ) I've based Sir Percival Blakeney on the performance of the wonderfully talented and drop-dead gorgeous Douglas Sills, and his nemesis Chauvelin on the equally talented and stunning William Michals.

ADDITIONAL INFO: Here are some very helpful links for anyone looking for more information on the book/musical on which this fic is based:

http://sarahb1.tripod.com/sp/sp.html-this is a page my sister Sarah put together with some pictures of Douglas Sills as Sir Percy and William Michals as Chauvelin to give readers an idea of what those characters in my fic look like. Thanks, sis!

http://www.thepimpernel.com -the site for the musical-has a synopsis of the show's plot, and lots of great pictures!

http://www-2.cs.cmu.edu/People/rgs/scarp-table.html-the URL for an online version of the first book in the series, 'The Scarlet Pimpernel'. Read how it all began! The plot differs from the musical version, but all of the key characterizations are the same.

http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Palais/1797- Blakeney Manor, a site devoted to the Pimpernel in all of his incarnations. Contains e-texts for several of the 'Pimpernel' books, as well as images, a great timeline plotting events of the books alongside the French Revolution, 18th century fashion, and more!

http://www.SirPercy.org-One of the most comprehensive Pimpernel sites around-more e-texts of Pimpernel books, info on Pimpernel books, films, etc.

http://www.geocities.com/Broadway/Stage/9027-Kelda Blakeney's Palace, a very fun website dedicated to the musical. Lots of great pages, pictures, contributions by fans, the Scarlet Pimpernel Message Board, and more!

http://www.geocities.com/Broadway/4138/sp.html- "Into the Fire', an excellent site featuring images, lyrics to songs from the show, etc., and a very nice entrance page!

http://www.dragonfare.com/Pimpernel-A very well put together fan page for the musical, with lyrics, images, a running account of seeing the musical, etc.


I'd like to send big thanks to my sister Sarah and my betas NotTasha, Joan, Carla and Sara for all their help and great suggestions!! You guys are the best!!! I had a lot of fun writing this story, and their ideas helped make it all fall into place!!!

I hope you all enjoy the fic!!

Sue :)


THE MAGNIFICENT PIMPERNEL

England, October 1793, outside of London


The sun shone brightly on the rolling green English hills and verdant forests as they lay basking in the warmth of an early autumn afternoon. The countryside was peaceful this October day, its waving meadows of tall grass and sparkling small streams contributing to the tranquil setting. A visitor beholding this calm scene would be hard pressed to believe that not far away lay the great city of London, with its noise, crowds and squalor; here, all was blanketed in the beautiful serenity of nature.

Through this picturesque scene wound a country road, deserted on this mild day save for one lone rider, who barely cast a glance at the verdant landscape as he trotted down the lane. The dull thudding of his great black horse's hooves against the hard dirt was the only sound to stir the warm country air, but the man's distracted expression indicated that his thoughts were far from the peaceful countryside surrounding him.

He sat the horse with expert ease, his finely-cut black clothes and gleaming leather tack indicating a person of wealth and society. His square, handsome face was slightly lined with age, but still bore the attractiveness and vigor of youth. His blonde hair was smoothly pulled back and fastened into a long queue which hung down past the high collar of his plain but fashionable riding coat.

Closer observation, however, would reveal a hardened look to his sharp green eyes, a dark shadow lurking just behind their gaze which cast a shadow over his entire countenance. There was suffering in those depths, an old pain which had been quickly inflicted and had only just begun to heal.

The rider followed the road up a slight rise, and as he topped the hill, a magnificent view appeared before him. He was at the edge of the forests now; the rolling hills now lay clear and glowing in the afternoon sunshine. The rider reined in his horse and paused for a moment, considering the sight which now met his eyes as a small, wistful smile spread across his face.

In the near distance, nestled among the green hills and gleaming like a pearl in an emerald sea, lay an enormous estate, its massive mansion and lushly landscaped lawn giving clear indication of the status of those who lived there. The house itself was enormous, gracefully designed and superbly built of light stone. Its tall polished windows flashed in the sunlight, its huge double front doors and sweeping front staircase seemingly inviting all who passed to enter and admire what lay inside.

To one side sat a large and perfectly tended rose garden, with roses of all colors twining and twisting over the whitewashed trellises and bursting from the bushes. Even from this distance, the rider could detect their fragrance lingering in the autumn air. Behind the mansion lay more well-tended lawns and the edge of the next forest, as if the house was merely a pause of civilization before nature reclaimed the land.

It was a beautiful sight, and the traveler sat admiring it for several moments before continuing, his smile never fading. Finally he spurred his horse forward, and they both trotted down the road, at length turning up the long path which led to the mansion's front door. He galloped through a tall iron gate set into the high stone wall which surrounded the estate; into the wall by the entrance was set a rectangular brass plaque, polished to blinding brilliance, which read in florid script: BLAKENEY MANOR.

After passing beneath the huge shady trees which lined the approach to the mansion, the rider turned his mount into the circular road which wound past the huge marble staircase. At the center of the circle was a grassy garden with a riot of multicolored flowers, its perfume mingling with that of the rose garden. As the traveler reined in his horse, a young footman appeared to meet him, clad in green and white, his brown hair neatly tied back, his thin face wearing an expression of dutifulness.

"Good day, sir," he said in a clipped manner, his English accent clear in every syllable.

The rider nodded as he dismounted and handed the reins to the footman. "Good day," he replied; there was no accent in his tones. "I'm here to see Sir Percival Blakeney; he's expecting me."

The footman cocked his head. "Your name, sir?"

"Sir Christopher Larabee."

"Ah." The footman nodded a little in recognition and turned to another man who had appeared at the top of the grand entryway stairway, a taller, older, dignified figure wearing a white wig and carrying a staff. "Jessup, Sir Christopher has arrived."

Jessup appeared delighted at the news as his square, soft face lit up at once. "Ah, excellent! He's been anticipating your visit, sir. Be so good as to follow me, Sir Christopher, and I will dispatch someone to inform the baronet of your presence."

The great black horse was led away to the livery nearby as Chris mounted the stairs, pulling off his black leather riding gloves. As he walked, he glanced about, seemingly a little uncomfortable at the opulence of his surroundings; everything in sight spoke of luxury and immense wealth. But it quickly passed, and by the time he went through the gleaming front doors, his mind had moved on to other matters.

"Right this way, Sir Christopher," Jessup said in his haughty tones as they moved through the elegantly appointed foyer. His riding boots clicked against the polished tile floors as they moved towards the drawing room. He glanced around a bit, noting the plush curtains, the carved mahogany furniture upholstered with rich embroidered fabrics, the sumptuous rugs and invaluable artworks which graced the painted walls and decorated every shining table and marble mantelpiece.

"I am sure Sir Percival would apologize for the delay, sir," Jessup sniffed as they walked down the hall towards the drawing room, his voice echoing in the huge space. "He is currently meeting with his tailor, and will be down at once."

Chris laughed a little as he took off his tricornered hat. "If I know Sir Percy as well as I used to, he could be with that tailor all day."

They entered the drawing room, a huge chamber lined with light blue walls, their surfaces hung with large paintings in bright golden frames. Several tall paned windows draped with dark blue velvet curtains filled the room with sunshine, the light bouncing off of the richly appointed furniture and the beautiful inlaid spinet which graced one corner of the chamber.

Jessup's gray eyes looked at him uncertainly, then he cleared his throat. "The baronet takes great care with his wardrobe, as you know, sir," he said carefully, trying to phrase his words diplomatically. "He sees it as his duty as an English gentleman to always be at the height of fashion."

"Yes, I know," Chris nodded, the pain in his eyes receding a bit as he smiled. "I don't guess that's too hard when you're one of the richest men in England." His tone was fond, without the slightest trace of jealousy.

A servant has bustled in behind them, and in no time was handing Chris a crystal snifter of brandy.

"I shall go make certain Sir Percival has been made aware of your arrival, sir," Jessup said as the servant hustled back out. "If you'll excuse me."

Chris nodded, waving him out slightly with one hand, an expression of friendly acquiescence on his face. Jessup bowed a bit and disappeared, leaving the visitor alone with his thoughts.

Chris sipped at his brandy as he gazed idly about the room, its every touch reflecting the taste and sophistication of its master and mistress; not much had apparently changed in Percy's ideas of style, it seemed, or his desire to only acquire the best of everything.

How long had he known Percy, Chris mused as he studied his surroundings. Since they had met at school as boys, and Chris had always counted the man among his friends. Theirs had been a bond of survival; Chris was harassed because he had spent his first eleven years in the American colonies, where his British parents had resided until his father came into his inheritance, while Percy had to endure the stigma of an indifferent father and a mother who had died insane when he was a child. Between Chris's fighting prowess, and Percy's quick wits, they had found a way to fend off the bullies together and form a lasting bond. Along with Percy's other friends, including Lord Tony Dewhurst, the men had managed to fill their years of education with a good deal of camaraderie, practical jokes, and, occasionally, learning.


Chris's father had inherited a modest estate from a wealthy uncle who despised everyone else in his family. Soon after finishing his education, Percy acquired the considerably more vast estate of Blakeney Manor, also called Richmond. Before long Percy was awhirl in London society, immersing himself in fashion, gentleman's sports, and other high-society pursuits which earned him the reputation of being delightful and handsome, but rather shallow. Yet he and Chris remained close, and when Chris met the beautiful French woman Sarah during a tour of Europe, Percy had been the one to arrange a suitably embarrassing pre-marriage party for him. Even when he was in France, they had still corresponded; Percy had been as delighted as anyone over the birth of his son Adam. With the passing of his father, Chris inherited the Larabee estate, and joyfully anticipated bringing his family to England. Then-

Chris scowled and sat down on one of the richly upholstered chairs. It still was impossible, even after two years, to suppress the grief in his heart over what had happened next. Chris had been in England on business, preparing to bring Sarah and Adam over, when the Revolution began. Horrified and frantic, Chris made the dangerous journey to Paris, only to discover that the guillotine had already claimed his family, condemned as aristocrats and traitors to the new order.

Dark memories burned across Chris's mind; how he had been arrested himself, condemned as an aristocrat and enemy to the new Republic of France, the horrors of waiting with the other condemned prisoners in the squalid Conciergerie prison, how his friend Buck Wilmington and Vin Tanner-the gameskeeper of his small estate, but more like a second brother-had risked their lives to come to Paris, find him, and bring him home. Home to a large, empty house echoing with hopes of a happiness that would never be his.

The next eighteen months had been a dark, painful blur, a desperate whirl of sleepless nights and hollow days without purpose. For almost a year he had abandoned his home to wander England, riding alone from town to town, haunting taverns, searching for something to take away the pain. By the time he finally returned to his estate, some of the anguish was gone, but anger had taken its place.

He hadn't really had the heart to visit Percy since, despite several invitations. He'd heard his friend had also married a French woman, a famous one as it turned out, the beautiful actress Marguerite St. Just. Chris had sent his congratulations, but had not attended the wedding, and since then had only caught news of Percy through the various gossip passed on by Buck, gleaned from his frequent jaunts to the local taverns. It sounded as if Percy hadn't changed much, ever the fashionable favorite of London society, despite the rest of the world going to hell. He had earned his title of the best-dressed man in London, and from what Chris had heard, that was all the man cared about.

It hadn't surprised him much; though Percy was a good friend, Chris had never thought he was much of a deep thinker, and the few times he had attended parties where Percy was also present, the man could always be found by following the sound of his inane, foppish laugh. Percy was usually surrounded by a group of men just as fashion-obsessed as himself, and they were invariably talking about the latest trends as if they were the most important things in the world. How did Marguerite stand him always joking while her countrymen slaughtered each other? Chris wondered.

A sad, vaguely disgusted feeling gripped Chris's heart. With thousands being killed in France every day, it seemed all that mattered to Percy was whether his buttons were properly polished and if his cravat was tied just right. Perhaps it was for the best that he hadn't really spoken to him lately, Chris mused; still grieving, he knew he couldn't bear to be around Percy and his friends, listening to them discuss such trivial matters.

Chris sighed to himself and mentally shrugged, taking a sip from the snifter. He couldn't really fault his old friend; that was just Percy, the same as he'd always been, sailing through life untouched by its darker aspects. He was a good man, a generous and loyal friend, and if he lacked the capacity to take interest in anything beyond the realm of fashion and society, well, that was simply the way he was. Perhaps someday, that would change.

So engrossed was Chris in his thoughts that he failed to hear the footsteps quickly approaching the room. He remained unaware until a loud, enthusiastic voice boomed from the doorway, "Christopher! How bloody marvelous to see you again!"

A bit startled, Chris got to his feet and turned. In the doorway was a man around thirty years old, his powerfully built frame standing over six feet tall, clad in a casual yellow and black striped outfit of the latest cut, the high-collared coat of which dropped almost to his ankles. Every inch of his appearance bespoke a man to whom appearance was everything, from his thick golden-blonde hair tied neatly back into a long curled queue to his immaculately tied white cravat and neatly stitched flowered waistcoat to the gold-framed single-lensed quizzing glass which hung around his neck.

The man's striking appearance was enhanced by his classic handsomeness; he had a strong countenance marked by fine high cheekbones, a straight, strong nose, and lazy blue eyes set beneath fine, long brows of chestnut brown. Upon seeing Chris, those blue eyes brightened, and he seemed about to fly to pieces from excitement.

"Sink me, but I'm thrilled you were able to come today, my friend!" he exclaimed in a highly pleased voice as he dashed into the room, one finely manicured hand extended before him. His voice was smooth and rich, marked by the tones of England's highest class.

Chris smiled as he gripped Percy's hand; damn, but it was good to see him. "Thank you for the invitation, Percy."

Percy released his friend's hand but instantly patted him on the shoulder. "Not at all, old boy, not at all. It's been so blasted dull with you hiding yourself away lately, I simply had to take matters to hand." He looked back to where Jessup was waiting by the door. "Jessup, be a good fellow and tell the girls to set an extra place for dinner, would you?" He turned to Chris. "Do say you'll stay, you must be famished after that demmed dusty ride."

All of this happened in a fast whirl, and Chris had to blink a little to try and keep pace with it all. After a moment of thought, he nodded. "That'll be fine."

"Splendid! Off you go, Jessup, and do see we're not disturbed, thank you!"

With hat Jessup hastened from the room, and Percy swiftly and smoothly closed the tall polished doors.

"Pray accept my apologies for not meeting you sooner, my friend," the baronet said with a smile as he walked to the sideboard and picked up the brandy decanter.

Chris shrugged a little. "That's all right, Percy, you know I don't stand much on ceremony."

"Yes, by God, I do!" Percy chuckled warmly as he poured his drink. "One of the reasons I'm so fond of your company, I expect-your money hasn't turned you into one of those staid dull fellows." He glanced up at Chris and lifted the decanter a bit. "Would you like some more brandy?"

Chris looked down at his nearly-full glass. "Not just yet." He smiled a little. "I should apologize for interrupting your visit with your tailor."

Percy shook his head after taking a sip of brandy. "Quite all right, dear boy, we were just finishing up anyway. You should see the new garb he's making for me. Lud! It would make Solomon in his glory weep with envy, it's so stunning. The man is an utter genius, sir, a genius. I would be happy to recommend him to you, should you ever desire it."

Chris glanced quickly down at his plain black clothes-finely made and tailored, but still far more simple than what Percy was wearing-and looked back up at his friend, shaking his head with a slight grin.

"I'm grateful, Percy, but that won't be necessary. What I have suits me just fine."

Percy paused, then nodded. "Yes, yes, quite all right," he muttered, his voice becoming softer. "Gad, but I should have known! Forgive me. And do have a seat, you must be simply exhausted. Best be comfortable for our chat, eh?"

Chris sat back down in the chair as Percy walked to a seat nearby, the long striped coat swirling about his legs. Chris watched him with a small grin; Percy hadn't changed a bit since the old days, and Chris could only wish with regret that time had left his own soul untouched as well.

"Thank you for accepting my invitation, Christopher," Percy said in his cultured English tones as he sat down. A regretful smile crossed his lips. "It's been such a demmed long time since we've had a chance to talk."

Chris shrugged. "Haven't been feeling much like being sociable," he confessed quietly, putting the barely-touched brandy carefully down on the finely polished mahogany table beside him.

The other man nodded sympathetically, his expression becoming serious. "Yes, by God, I can understand that. See here, my friend," Percy continued in a quiet manner, sitting forward, "this whole business has been perfectly ghastly for you, I've no doubt. Is there anything at all you need? Some extra help around the estate, that sort of thing?"

After a pause, Chris shook his head. "Thank you, Percy, but there's not that much to manage, Vin's got it pretty much under control," he sighed.

Percy nodded quickly. "Good, good," he muttered. "Though you'll let me know if that changes, all right? Begad, old boy, I was quite beside myself when I heard. Your sweet wife and boy claimed by Madame Guillotine..." He shook his head. "Quite a tragedy, to be sure. Are you certain there's nothing you require?"

There was a pause as Chris dropped his eyes, staring at some distant point. "About the only thing that'll truly help me is the one thing I can't do."

Percy peered at him, curiosity in his blue eyes. "And what might that be, my friend?" he inquired softly.

Chris hesitated. Percy, with all of his fussing over fashion and other meaningless matters, would never understand the violent urges churning through Chris's soul. The raging desire to do something, anything, to ease the grief. What could his old friend know of such things, safe and pampered behind the marble walls of Richmond?

But still...He sighed and rose, walking over to stand in the sunlight, facing out the window so that Percy couldn't see the anger in his eyes.

"You remember the times we had back at school?" he asked in a reflective tone, staring out across the rolling green lawns. "All the times we had to fight the other boys because they said we'd never be gentlemen?"

He heard Percy laugh a little. "Zounds, hard to forget those days!" he replied. "We did have some rather satisfying brawls, if I recall. And I believe we've proved 'em wrong, after all."

Chris swallowed, his throat tightening. "Maybe you have, Percy," he said softly, "but you know I've never been one for dressing fancy and being the gentleman, like you. Maybe it's because of all those years growing up in the colonies. I may have some money, but I'm not what you'd call refined, and I have to admit it's never really bothered me all that much."

"Sink me, my friend," Percy exclaimed in a contemplative voice, "you're a demmed sight more refined than some of those rascals in our circle. It just don't show outside, that's all."

"Perhaps," was the doubtful response. "But after Sarah and Adam were killed..." He paused, the agonizing pain in his heart flaring through his soul. "Well, I've been having some thoughts that are pretty unrefined. If there was some way I could get to France and find a way to make those bastards pay for what they did, I'd take it in a heartbeat."

Percy was standing beside him now, and when Chris turned to him he noticed that the nobleman was studying him in a lazy manner, mild shock in his blue eyes. But there was something else there, too...

"Do you mean to say," Percy inquired in hushed tones, "that you'd risk your life to strike back at the French? You've heard what it's like there now, I'm sure. Blood runs down the streets like rainwater."

Chris sighed and looked back into the yard. "If it meant there was some way of stopping them," he said in a firm voice before turning back to face his friend, his green eyes hard, "then that's exactly what I'm saying. Risks be damned."

He expected Percy to be shocked, or laugh at him, or try to talk him out of it. Instead, his friend backed away a few steps, watching Chris very closely as he went to the elegant sideboard where the brandy stood.

"Bold words, my friend, very bold words indeed," Percy said as he retrieved the cut crystal brandy bottle. "Although I'm sure our government would frown on such a venture."

Chris shook his head as he wearily walked back to the sofa. "That wouldn't bother me," he confessed as he sat down. "It's a personal fight, not something I'd want anyone else involved in." He paused for a moment, then gave a quick, light laugh. "And that hasn't stopped some other people, anyway."

"Ah!" Percy chuckled as he refreshed his brandy. "You're no doubt referring to that demmed impetuous madman, the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

Chris smiled; the Scarlet Pimpernel was currently England's most famous son, even if no one knew who he really was. All that could be said was that he was an Englishman who managed, through daring and disguise, to save countless condemned men, women and children from the guillotine, spiriting them to England and safety while leaving only a small piece of paper marked with a small red flower for the baffled French to find. It had started the previous year, and with every passing month the Pimpernel's fame grew as those he rescued spread the tales of his bravery. Men praised his courage; women swooned over his daring; he was the toast of England; and all endlessly discussed who he, and the men who worked with him, could possibly be.

Whoever he was, he was a man of action, of resolution, of selfless determination-everything Percy, decent fellow though he was, was not. Thus, Chris was not surprised that Percy disapproved of anything reckless. "I guess you might call it impetuous, for an Englishman to go rescuing people from the guillotine right under the noses of those bloodthirsty scum without expecting any kind of fame or reward," Chris admitted, leaning back in his seat. "I call it damn brave, myself."

Percy gave a refined scoff as he walked back to his chair. "Skulking about France in disguise, without a soul even knowing his identity, leaving only a paper marked with that wretched red pimpernel flower as his calling card?" He sipped his brandy and shook his head. "Hardly the acts of a proper gentleman, sir."

The other man tiled his head a little. "Not too improper for you to use him as inspiration for that poem of yours that everyone keeps quoting. I heard about it, even when I was traveling. Really caught on, you should be proud of yourself."

"La! Yes," Percy chirped, a wide smile of self-satisfaction spreading over his handsome face. "Sink me, but I never guessed it would be so bloody popular! I must say, it was one of my most briliant creations, even if I think the impertinent fellow who inspired it to be quite mad." He paused, still smiling as he glanced upwards a bit towards the ceiling and began to recite, one hand toying with the golden quizzing-glass about his neck and gesturing with it as he spoke.

"They seek him here, they seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere!
Is he in heaven, or is he in hell?
That demmed, elusive Pimpernel!"

At the end he burst into a fit of giggles, highly pleased with himself. "Lud love me, but that's quite good, if I do say so m'self!" he chortled.

Chris smiled indulgently. "Good enough for just about the whole country to be quoting it," he pointed out as he waited for Percy to recover from his own wit. "I'll wager even the Pimpernel himself, whoever he is, has probably read it by now."

"Or more likely had someone read it to him," Percy said with a shrug as he succeeded in collecting himself. "Marguerite's maid heard that he's actually an illiterate German stableboy."

Chris laughed, glad for the distraction. "Buck's got a wager going at the tavern that the Pimpernel's a Russian prince acting on orders from the Empress Catherine." He sighed and shook his head. "Whoever he is, I'd join him and his men in a shot."

His friend emitted an elegant snort as he resumed his seat. "What, that infernal band of his? The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel? Rubbish! England needs her sons here and safe, doing what men were meant to do-squire the ladies about in the most handsome manner possible. Why, a fellow could hardly stay in clean linens, poncing off to France as he does every bloody week!"

A smile played across Chris's lips. "I suppose he just imagines some things are more important than looking good, Percy," he replied quietly.

"Odd's fish, I can't imagine what," was the astounded answer muttered into his glass just before Percy drained his snifter. The nobleman swallowed and sat up, shaking his head and regarding Chris with an expression of concern. "See here, my boy, no more of that. Vengeance is a dirty business, and exceedingly bad for one's health. I pray you find a far safer means of soothing your soul, one which can be accomplished safely on our own hallowed shores."

Chris smiled a bit, not surprised that Percy didn't quite understand. "We'll see," he muttered, willing to drop a subject that made his friend so uncomfortable. The desire, however, remained.

"Good," Percy replied, pleased. "And no more talk of that Pimpernel fellow, all right? Gives me the shivers. There is a matter of vital urgency which I must discuss with you."

Chris looked up, slightly surprised and wondering what Percy would find so important. "All right," he said, cradling his snifter in his hands and leaning forward.

"Now," the baronet continued, "the Prince is giving his autumn reception next week. My dear Marguerite will be home from the spa by then, and she and I insist that you join us to the event as our guest."

The other man blinked; that was a matter of vital urgency? He shifted awkwardly. "Well, Percy, I don't know," he said with hesitation. "That sounds like a pretty fancy gathering."

"So it will be, my friend, just the thing to lift your spirits!" Percy insisted, his blue eyes blazing at the prospect. "Come, I promise you, as my guest I will see to it that you are treated with all the respect you deserve, and I know several people who have missed you at this year's parties. Marguerite is simply mad to meet you as well, and most anxious that you emerge for a breath of air."

Chris paused; a huge, elegant ball wasn't something he really felt ready to face just yet.

"I'll...I'll think about it," Chris promised, unwilling to disappoint Percy by flatly refusing. He was only trying to help, after all, and it seemed that to Percy, a party could cure just about anything.

"Splendid!" Percy exclaimed with a dazzling smile. "And you may bring a guest of your own if you choose, I'm sure His Highness won't mind. Ever since I assisted him in selecting the royal wardrobe last spring, he's been most forgiving of me."

Chris nodded; from what he'd heard of the Prince of Wales, the man needed all the fashion advice he could get. "I appreciate it, Percy. I'll let you know."

His friend leaned forward in his armchair, setting the empty snifter down on a nearby table as he peered at Chris. "I do hope you decide to attend, my friend," he said in a more thoughtful tone. "You're a good, sensible man, and society needs as many of them as it can find in these dangerous times."

Chris thought of the anger still in his heart over losing Sarah and Adam, and wondered how good Percy would think he was if he were able to see past the surface.

"And if you require any assistance in your garb for the ball," Percy continued in a much lighter tone, "I will be more than delighted to help!"

******
Percy's poem was written by Baroness Orczy and appears in the first Pimpernel novel, 'The Scarlet Pimpernel'
******

"So, what'd Percy want last night?"

Buck's voice barely carried over the din of the Brown Boar tavern as he and Chris sat stretched out before the fire, away from the evening crowd which milled about in the main room. Chris didn't answer at first, thinking as he smoked his long clay pipe and stared into the dancing flames.

The other man was content to wait for the answer, the warm firelight dancing off his handsome face and thick black hair, his blue eyes wandered the room for their pretty barmaid. Like Chris, he wore simple clothes, nothing that would attract attention; also like Chris, he had been born in America to wealthy British parents, the two meeting at school. Their separation when Chris's family left for Britain was short-lived; Buck's parents, staunch Royalists, left the colonies at the start of the rebellion and returned home. Many in the tavern knew Buck was the son of a Lord, but as he had four older brothers and little hope of inheriting anything, the fact failed to impress them much. It impressed Buck even less, and his low family status had the advantage of allowing him the freedom to behave as he pleased.

Another man sat on Chris's other side, just as relaxed, although his rough, brown-hued clothes and tall, worn, mud-spattered boots were more suited to the dim, smoky tavern than Buck and Chris's modest finery. His long golden-brown curls hung loose and unfettered about his shoulders, rather than tied neatly back, and his handsome, boyish face bore the shadow of slight stubble. This man's bright blue eyes were quietly watching the fire, flickering with a latent energy which belied his casual posture. Smoke drifted from his short-stemmed pipe, wafting and mingling with the puffs snaking from the pipes of his companions before floating away.

"Oh, not much," Chris finally replied, still staring at the flickering flames. "Wanted to talk about Sarah and Adam. Said he was sorry about it."

Buck nodded. "Glad you finally went to see him," he offered, taking a drink of his ale. "Every time we had a party, he'd track me down to ask about you, no matter how many of father's guests he had to plow through."

His friend chuckled around his pipe. "Persistent, isn't he?"

"Persistent don't tell it by half," the brown-haired man muttered, not taking his eyes from the fire. "Every time we cross paths when I'm hunting, you're the first thing he asks about. An' he's serious about it, not all foolish like he is normally."

Chris blew out a puff and laughed a little. "Not much for Percy's style, eh, Vin?"

Vin shrugged, glancing over at his two friends. "Just can't see why he's got to act so fancy, that's all. Long as a man's got his roof, his rifles, and a few good huntin' dogs, what does he need with gold shoes and silk shirts?" Like Chris and Buck, the years of living in America had worn away all traces of an English accent from his voice.

"When you're as rich as Percy is, you have to show it off," Buck replied with a contemplative frown. "Else I don't think it counts, somehow."

"Then I'm just as glad not to be rich," Vin murmured, looking back into the fire.

Buck nudged Chris a little, grinning. "It's all those years he spent in the Colonies, being a mountain guide and living with the Indians."

The huntsman smirked a bit as he peered at Buck. "You an' Chris ought to be damn glad I was in them mountains, Wilmington, after I saved your asses from that bear the day we all first met. You two wouldn't have been the first rich boys he'd munched on, I'll wager. Remember?"

"Whew! I do," Chris sighed with a shake of his head as he stared into the fire. "I think I'd decided to hire you on as my huntsman before that beast even hit the ground. I never saw a man get off a shot like that, right between the eyes."

"That was amazing," Buck agreed with a nod, "and God knows I'll appreciate that to my dyin' day. I'm just saying you never had to listen to people tell you all the time how important it was to be rich, like we did. Hell, it's about all my father talks about. And after all these years of listening to him, I still can't quite see his point."

Vin nodded. "That's what I'm sayin', Buck. I never had a farthing when I was growing up in Wales, or earnin' my way to the colonies as a sailor, or guiding travelers through the Allegheny mountains. Never felt less of a man for it, either. Percy and those other rich fellows, they can keep their silk suits. I'm fine in my skins."

"Aw, Percy's got a decent heart, even if he does dress too pretty for his own good," Buck said with a wave of his hand. A smile crossed his face. "Well, at least he didn't tell the Earl of Gloucester about the time he found me kissin' the Earl's daughter."

Chris laughed and took the pipe from his mouth, regarding Buck warmly. "Buck, if you keep chasing the ladies, one of them is liable to run you right to the altar."

"Not too worried about that," Buck admitted, setting his ale down. "Once they find out I won't inherit a farthing, they generally go running the other way."

"Hm." Chris's expression became wistful as he turned his eyes back to the fire. "I was lucky with Sarah. She didn't care a damn how much money I had, as long as we could be together."

"Yeah," Buck sighed softly, settling back in his chair. "She was special. Never put on fancy airs or ignored people because they weren't rich."

Silence fell, and after a few moments, Buck looked over. Chris was still staring into the fire, the gentle light of remembering now hardened into a more bitter gleam.

"I'll never understand how her own people could have killed her and Adam," Chris whispered in a choked voice.

He could still see it all so clearly, the Paris he had known and loved drowned in a sea of hatred and blood. He had known about the unrest, but had never dreamed it would swallow his family, and the torturous questions never left his mind. If he hadn't listened to Sarah when she insisted on staying with her family in Paris when he went back to England-if he'd been able to get back sooner-if there had been some way, any way, to stop their deaths...

Then, after he realized he'd been too late, they had come after him as well. If Vin and Buck had not heard he had been arrested and risked their lives to come to France for his sake, he would have followed his wife and son to the guillotine. The escape had been difficult, more of a miracle than anything else, and he could still feel the horror of their flight through the dark streets of Paris, surrounded by a suffocating fog of terror.

"No use tryin' to figure them out, Chris," Vin said in a quiet voice. "They're just plain blood-crazy, and that's all there is to it. We were lucky to get you out of there alive."

"If you hadn't put a musket ball into that officer coming after us, Vin, we *wouldn't* have gotten out of that hellpit alive," Buck pointed out. "Just sorry that man's family put a price on your head for it."

Vin shrugged and studied the bowl of his pipe. "Well, it's not like I'm planning on going back soon. Saw enough of that madness to last me quite a while."

"It's a madness somebody should stop," Chris muttered, his eyes never leaving the fire. Finally he blinked and smiled a bit. "Would you believe Percy and I even discussed the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

Buck snorted indelicately. "Who hasn't?" he groused into his ale.

"They were talking about the Pimpernel during the hunt last week, when I was helping the gameskeeper at Hutchings Manor," Vin volunteered. "Percy was there. He went all green and said he had to go lie down."

Chris shook his head. "The same thing happened last night. Seems just talking about the Pimpernel makes him nervous."

"Well, I wouldn't mind if people would *stop* talking about him," Buck insisted. "Not sure how that Pimpernel does it, but he seems to rescue another hundred people each week. And you should hear JD-we were cleaning up in the stables yesterday and I swear, all that boy talked about was that damn Scarlet Pimpernel."

Chris laughed a little. "Still idolizing him and wishing he could go to France and fight too, I suppose?"

Vin shrugged. "When you're eighteen and been working in the stables since you were eight like JD, it's not hard to wish you were somewhere more exciting."

"He's probably still missing his mother, too," Chris offered, staring at the fire with a melancholy expression. After a moment he glanced at Buck. "It was good of your father to keep JD on, after she died last year."

His friend nodded, looking into the fire as well. "It sure wasn't easy talking him into that," Buck said with a sigh. "He usually doesn't pay attention to a word I say. But I wasn't about to let him turn that boy out, after his mother worked all those years at our place." He sniffed, rubbed his nose, and sat back, trying to lose his somber mood. "Besides, he'd get himself killed if it weren't for me, with all those ideas about adventure he's got in his head."

"Maybe you shouldn't have taught him to read," Chris said, reaching for his mug of ale.

"Well, it wouldn't be so bad if some of the things those newspapers print weren't so bloody ridiculous!" Buck protested. "Every week it's nothing but how damn dashing and brave and heroic that Pimpernel is. Most of the pretty ladies around here have decided he's some kind of god, and it's making things hard for us ordinary men!"

"Lucky for you no one knows who he is," Vin replied with a small smile, taking another puff on his short pipe. "The girls'd all run after him and leave you empty-handed." He paused and thought a bit. "Of course, I heard he's kind of short and rather ugly."

"Now that's what I can't figure out," Buck said, his voice becoming puzzled. "Here's a fellow who rides off into all that danger and rescues people from the guillotine, and he disguises himself so nobody can find him to even say thank you! If you're going to go to all that trouble, you might at least get something back for it."

"I suppose saving the lives is reward enough for him," Chris mused around small puffs of white smoke. "It would be for me, if it meant preventing the hell I went through from happening to anyone else."

Vin nodded quietly, his blue eyes thoughtful.

Buck humphed. "Well, I'd still like a little kiss from a pretty lady out of it."

Chris cocked his head. "You could still get your chance, for a kiss, anyway. Percy invited me to a reception next week for the Prince, and he said I could bring a guest. Vin, I'm guessing you're not interested."

"You guessed right," Vin replied lightly, putting his booted feet up and watching the fire.

Buck scratched his chin thoughtfully. "It would be a good way to practice the new dance steps with the ladies," he averred. "Are you going?"

Chris pursed his lips, scowling. "Haven't decided yet. I know Percy means well, but I don't think I have the stomach to listen to him and his friends blather on about the latest cravat styles and how long coats will be this spring." He sighed and looked at Buck. "He's a good friend, Buck, but sometimes I wonder how anyone can be so damn shallow. I know he's always been that way, but lately it's gotten even worse, until I wonder if I even know him anymore."

"I suppose he's rich enough to do without deep thoughts," Buck shrugged. "Don't be too hard on him, Chris, he's an all right fellow, even if he is a dandy."

Chris chuckled a little. "Maybe-"

Screams interrupted Chris's thought, and both men sat up quickly as a crash of noise and shouting erupted from the main room.

"Damn, looks like Widow Nettie's havin' trouble again," Buck muttered, sitting up in his chair and straining to see. Vin was turning to look behind him, his face anxious.

Chris put his pipe aside and stood, an angry, disgusted look on his face. "Let's go see what it is this time."

A small crowd had gathered around one of the round tables towards the back of the room. By the time Chris, Vin and Buck had pushed their way there, the trouble had calmed to a dull roar but was still howling away.

The contention seemed to center at a table where a card game had apparently been interrupted. Most of the players had vacated their seats in anticipation of trouble, leaving scattered cards and abandoned tankards of ale. Two of the players remained; one was a short, balding gentleman in a blue coat, who stood pointing and sputtering at the other player in a fit of red-faced rage, a rage which did not seem to particularly impress the other man, who had remained seated.

He was young, perhaps thirty, and dressed far more elaborately than anyone else in the tavern; he would have almost matched Sir Percy at his most chic, so fashionable was his silk cravat, striped vest, and high-collared green coat. His smooth chestnut-colored hair was styled in the latest manner, his queue coiling languidly down the back of his neck. Beside him sat a fashionably high-crowned black felt hat with a gleaming silver buckle in the hatband and a pair of elegant white gloves carefully folded, and in one hand he loosely gripped a tall gold-tipped walking stick. Not a hair on the man's head moved, not a muscle in his smooth face twitched as he sat watching his tormentor with calm, slightly amused green eyes.

Chris narrowed his eyes; he'd seen this fellow around at other taverns, with other men equally well-dressed, always crouched at corner tables and in back rooms where the dice and billiards were played. Such fine clothes would make one think he belonged in one of the gentlemen's clubs rather than a common place like the Brown Boar. But Chris perceived quickly that the clothes were more a sign of his profession than a sign of wealth; this man could not go to the gentlemen's clubs because he was not a gentleman.

There was a slight scuffle behind him, and a short, strong, bright-eyed older woman pushed through the crowd, wiping her hands on an apron and scowling in a dark manner.

"You men ought to know I don't allow no brawling in my tavern," she said sharply, throwing the apron out of her hands with a snap.

"I assure you, Madame Wells, this is not a brawl," huffed the blue-coated balding gentleman, waving one hand at his seated companion. "I am merely alerting all present to the fact that this scoundrel is a cheat!"

All eyes whipped to the other man; such an accusation normally resulted in a duel, at the very least. But the dandy looked merely bored.

"Indeed, sir," he drawled lazily, in a lilting accent Chris had rarely heard before, "I was under the notion that you were alerting all present to the fact that you are an ass."

"What seems to be the trouble?" Chris said quickly, stepping forward in an attempt to save his old friend Nettie from having to mop blood up from the rough wooden floor.

The balding man snorted and waved a hand at the table, the middle of which was covered with a small piles of paper money and a few coins. "This fellow, sir, has offered a counterfeit as a wager, insisting that it is genuine. I may not be young, but I am not a fool!"

"Just what kind of 'counterfeit' are we talking about?" Buck inquired with a confused smile.

The balding man gave another infuriated snort, leaned forward and snatched something from the pile, holding it up in the air for closer inspection as he hissed in outrage, "This!"

Chris studied it closely. It was a small piece of yellow parchment, a bit worn and folded. Clearly visible at its center was the image of a small, red, four-petaled flower.

"He claims he received it from the Scarlet Pimpernel himself," the man bellowed, "which is clearly an outrageous lie!"

At the mention of the Pimpernel, a few of the tavern girls squealed with excitement and pushed closer for a view as Buck sighed with resignation and shook his head.

Chris took the paper. A tingle of recognition swept over him; the little flower looked very familiar, but he couldn't think why. Probably because England had gone mad for the mysterious Pimpernel ever since he began his heroic career the year before; as the man's legend grew, the flower became the fashion rage, appearing everywhere. That had to be it.

"And why, sir," the seated man sighed, one hand casually twisting the golden head of his tall polished walking stick, "is it so unthinkable that that article is genuine?"

"Because you claim to have gotten it when the Pimpernel rescued you and your mother from a French cell," his adversary spat. "Well, Mr. Ezra Standish, I've heard all about you and that fancy mother of yours. Between the two of you you've swindled your way through the colonies and half of London, and if there was any justice you'd both be in Newgate Prison. The only reason you're here is because those bloody traitors in America got wise to you and threw you out."

The man still sat unruffled, but Chris could see his clear green eyes blazing as he stared at the balding man. Finally Mr. Ezra Standish coughed and said, in an even voice, "That being the case, sir, is it so unusual that we should seek refuge in France? And, perhaps, that circumstance might place us in peril sufficient to require rescue?"

"Perhaps," the other man said, nodding, "I've no doubt you'd try your old tricks there as well. But the Pimpernel's a fine, heroic man, the best in all England. He wouldn't wipe his boots on scum like you, or that greedy tart you call your mother."

The man's eyes widened just a bit, and he stood in one quick, graceful movement. There was a very loud, high-pitched scraping sound, and before anyone realized it, Standish had produced a long shining sword, the point of which just barely touched the knotted cravat at the base of the balding man's throat.

The tavern girls screeched while the men in the crowd pressed forward with a shout for a better view of the bloodshed.

There was a brief moment when nobody moved, the two opponents staring at each other intently.

In an instant Chris put his hands out. "There's no call for that!" he shouted; a tavern brawl was the last thing Nettie, or any of them, needed. Things were bloody enough these days.

"Can I help?" questioned a deep voice from somewhere behind Chris. Turning, he saw a man with graying black hair, a long, handsome face, and a tall, powerful-looking body clad in plain, dark clothing, his blue eyes watching the proceedings with great interest.

Standish lowered his sword, then sheathed it; Chris was intrigued to see that it was carried as a hidden weapon, normally concealed inside his smoothly polished walking stick.

The balding man scowled and jerked his head at the interloper. "Friend of yours?"

"Not at present, sir," Ezra replied, eying the older man keenly. "It depends on if he is offering assistance to you or myself."

"Can't say I care, as long as it keeps blood off the floor," Nettie proclaimed.

As the stranger stepped forward, reaching into his coat pocket, Chris felt Vin suddenly nudge him in the ribs.

"I've seen that big man before," the huntsman whispered. "The local people say he's living in an old church down by the river in the woods; they think he's mad."

"Looks pretty sane to me, right now," was the calm reply, as Chris carefully scrutinized the man. Indeed, he appeared totally relaxed as he took something from his pocket, holding it in his large hand.

"You see," the older man continued in a rich, even tone, "I was in France myself not too long ago, also at the mercy of the wicked and in need of help. The Good Lord sent it to me and those imprisoned with me, in the form of the Scarlet Pimpernel. As a constant reminder to thank God every day for my survival, I too have preserved the note he sent us to let us know all would be well, and here it is."

After saying this, he opened his hand, displaying a small piece of parchment identical to the one on the table, with a few lines of French on it and marked on the bottom with a single red flower.

"Now," the tall man said quietly, his blue eyes flashing as he towered over the baffled balding man, "am I a liar as well?"

The crowd gasped and pressed forward for a closer look at the precious souvenirs. Chris peered at the two papers; there was little difference between them, and the flower marks were exactly matched. Glancing up at Ezra, he saw the gaming man regarding the gray-haired stranger with an odd expression, a mixture of gratitude and suspicion.

"Well, now," spluttered the balding man, "how-how do I know you two aren't in league with each other? How do I know that's real?"

The tall man took a step forward, slowly, his face still calm. "I'll be glad to swear before God on it. Would that be good enough? Or should I show you the scars I still have, thanks to the good jailers of the French Republic?"

The balding man gulped, then turned to Ezra. "I suppose you have scars, too?" he demanded in a voice which tried to sound intimidating but failed miserably.

Ezra's green eyes flickered. "Oh, well, of course, but-modesty forbids me from exhibiting them in the public eye."

"I'm not modest," the tall man assured him, his voice still vaguely threatening. "Now, are you going to apologize to this man for your accusation?"

The balding man frowned, thought for a moment, then hastily grabbed his hat and gloves and hurried out of the tavern.

Murmurs of amusement rippled through the crowd.

"Ha! Look at him run!" one man jeered as the throng began to disperse.

"Can't blame him," another male voice said. "I've seen that tall fellow around..." The rest was nervous whispers.

Ezra was grinning hugely, clearly relieved as he carefully laid his lethal walking stick and its hidden sword back on the table. "That certainly cleared the air," he said gleefully as the other players began to sit back down. As he also resumed his seat, he looked at the older man. "My thanks, sir, your appearance was surely a divine miracle."

The older man shook his head a little as he retrieved the paper and put it back in his pocket. "I'm not so sure about that," he sighed with a slight smile. "Just pleased to be of some help."

"You stopped Nettie from having to scrub blood out of the floorboards, at least," Buck observed in a light voice. "You know how bad that stuff stains."

The older man's expression turned wistful as he looked away.

"Yes, I do," he muttered, putting on his worn, broad-brimmed hat. "Good night."

With that, he made his way out of the tavern, ignoring the curious looks and shouted questions about the Scarlet Pimpernel.

"He's sociable," Buck muttered, puzzled.

"Gentlemen," Ezra chirped as he shuffled a deck of cards and looked at Chris, Vin and Buck, "I also extend my thanks to you for your assistance in this matter. You may join us if you like, I must deal the hand over anyway."

Chris cocked his head. "You met the Pimpernel?"

The gambler sighed wearily, as if he'd heard the question a thousand times before. "Yes, last month, and before you ask, I have no idea what the man looks like or who he is. He was disguised as an ancient and quite filthy rat-catcher, and it wasn't until he'd gotten us out of Paris that I knew which of the men rescuing us was him. He never doffed his masquerade for a moment."

"How did you know the rat-catcher was the Pimpernel?" Vin inquired, leaning against one of the wooden posts which held up the tavern's rough-hewn roof.

Ezra took a sip of his ale, the light in his eyes becoming thoughtful. "There was one of the group whom the others followed implicitly, who placed himself at the most risk at every step. They were all courageous men-if we'd been caught, it would have meant death for us all on the spot-but he appeared to be the most intrepid. He constantly told his men that if we were in danger of capture, they were to take us and flee while he detained our pursuers. He would brook no protests to this course."

The gaming man paused, thinking. "He disappeared for a while during our escape after we left the city, and when he reappeared his right sleeve was torn and the arm was covered with blood. He must have been fending off some rather zealous opponents, but seemed concerned only with getting us all onto the boat and off to England. Such a brave man could only be the leader."

'He almost sounds jealous,' Chris thought, noting the admiring tone in Ezra's voice. "So, was what that man said true-you're from America?"

Ezra shook himself from his contemplative mood and concentrated on the cards flying through his nimble fingers. "South Carolina, among several other places," he said with a smile.

"What were you doing in France?" Buck inquired.

The smile twitched bit. "Personal matters," he murmured in a less congenial tone. He took a deep breath. "Well, my friends, the game goes on, as they say. Shall I deal you a hand?"

Buck glanced outside. "Maybe some other time, it's getting pretty late."

"I'm afraid we'll have to decline," Chris said as Buck and Vin went to pay Nettie.

"Very well," Ezra said as he began to deal, taking his gaze away from Chris. "We'll meet another day, perhaps."

"Perhaps." Chris nodded absently and walked away, his eyes on Ezra for a few moments longer. How odd it seemed: he, Ezra and the older stranger had all been caught in the claws of the Revolution, yet the scars were different for each. Ezra seemed barely touched by the experience, keen only to gamble away all memories of the event; the older man bore scars on his body, yet still held on to the miracle of his survival; and Chris-

Chris sighed to himself and followed Buck and Vin into the dark, cool night. For him, it seemed, there would be only the scars.



It was almost midnight by the time Chris stabled his black gelding in the livery of his modest estate. He unsaddled and groomed the beast himself; he had few servants on the place besides Vin, who wasn't truly a servant anyway. He had never liked the idea of being waited on, preferring to handle matters himself, a conviction only strengthened since the death of his family.

With Valor finally settled in for the night, he locked the livery and turned his steps to the simple, spacious stone house nearby, thinking how good some brandy and a warm bed sounded. A melancholy mood had settled over him since departing the tavern; he had thought of Sarah all the way home, and now felt sad and exhausted.

How lonely the house looks, he thought to himself as he trod up the curved cobblestone walk to the rounded wooden door, the lantern in his hand casting a fitful yellow glow over the scene. Perhaps he should have left the outside lamp lit. He fished the iron key out of his pocket and opened the door.

The familiar interior met his gaze, the sparse furniture of the white-walled rooms sitting mute and ghostlike in the gloom. His green eyes swept the scene once, its stillness gripping his heart, before something in his vision made him look at the floor at his feet.

Directly before him lay a small parchment envelope; he was almost stepping on it. Scowling, Chris looked behind him; it must have been pushed under the door while he was gone. Setting the lantern down on a nearby table, he retrieved the mysterious article and examined it closely. No name on the outside; perhaps a neighbor had sent it.

Tired and sore from the ride, he was tempted to leave it until morning. He moved to set it down, then reconsidered. Perhaps, he mused, it was important. With one finger he pulled open the flap of the envelope and slipped out its contents.

It was a small folded piece of parchment paper, one which made Chris's nerves jump with sudden excitement. But it couldn't be what it looked like-Quickly he unfolded it, his confusion mounting with each passing second.

Inside was a short message, written in a florid hand: LORD DEERING'S TOMB, TONIGHT. MOST URGENT. COME ALONE.

At the bottom of the note, plainly visible even in the lantern light, was the image of a small, red flower.

Chris's eyes grew wide, his heart racing. The note was identical to the ones displayed by Standish and the older stranger, the ones sent by the Scarlet Pimpernel. His mind whirled-a note to him from the Pimpernel? He didn't even know the man, how could he have found him? Had he been at the tavern today, in disguise? Perhaps it was some sort of joke, but it seemed a very odd sort of attempt at humor. It was all quite unbelievable. What could the most famous, venerated man in England want with him?

He began to think. Lord Deering's tomb-that was down by the river, at the edge of the woods. Not too far, but...Concern crept into his mind. Meeting a stranger in the dark was dangerous; it could be an attempt at robbery, or murder. He would be a fool to go.

He pursed his lips, then glanced outside into the autumn night. There was a full moon, and he could take a loaded pistol; he had learned to defend himself quite well in his time of wandering after Sarah and Adam's deaths. If there was any danger around, he'd know. And at least he would be able to confront whoever had the nerve to come onto his property at night.

Fifteen minutes later, hoofbeats pounded through the night air as a dark shape rode down the long dirt road towards the river.


The gentle sound of running water was the only noise stirring the air as Chris arrived at the tomb. It was an old structure, very simple, the only remnants of a man whose name and family had long since departed the area; a rectangular stone sarcophagus, three feet high, with little decoration and the name chiseled in timeworn letters on the top. The site was sorely neglected, wild and overgrown; tall grass choked the base of the tomb, vines embraced its slumbering gray shape. As Chris dismounted Valor and walked towards it, pistol drawn, he looked about and fought the feeling that he was walking into trouble.

There appeared to be no one about, but the thick masses of trees, shrouded with undergrowth, could have concealed anything. Bright silver moonlight bathed the clearings and sparkled in the river, but revealed no other living being.

Chris sighed and frowned. He didn't like this at all. It must have been a joke, he said to himself as he stood at the riverbank and scanned the opposite woods for any sign of movement. Only the stark and silent trees met his gaze.

For several minutes Chris prowled the bank, searching, waiting, checking his weapon in case of trouble. Finally he shook his head; if he ever found out who thought this was a really clever prank, he was going to-

"Sir Christopher Larabee?"

Chris started at the voice, but managed to maintain his calm; it was behind him somewhere, close but not too close. He whirled around, the gun up and ready, but saw no one.

"Who's there?" he yelled, looking everywhere.

There was a slight rustle from the depths of the woods. "I believe you were expecting to meet me," the voice said pleasantly. It was an odd voice, flat and nasal; Chris didn't recognize it, and realized that it was being disguised.

"You're the Pimpernel?" he asked, taking a step towards the woods.

"I am."

He saw it now, a dark, cloaked figure hidden among the trees. "I don't much care for being surprised in that way," Chris said in an angry tone, too weary for games. "Show yourself!"

The shape moved a bit but made no sign of emerging from the woods. "I regret the need for such tactics," the figure confessed. "My work requires secrecy. Otherwise, those who work with me, and who require my help, would be imperiled." The man paused. "I assure you, there is no need for your weapon."

Chris thought for a moment, then slowly lowered his pistol. If necessary, he knew he could aim and fire with a second's notice.

He eyed the shadowy form warily; most of England would give all they had for the chance to meet the Pimpernel, but he felt his awe being overpowered by fatigue and impatience. "Well, here I am. What's this urgent matter you mentioned in the letter?"

The Pimpernel took a step closer. "I understand you have expressed a desire to join the brave men who follow me," he said.

Chris grew instantly suspicious; how could he have known? Someone in the tavern, perhaps? The man could have spies everywhere, God knows. "Where did you hear that?"

"From one whose word I greatly trust," the shadow replied. "I presume it is true?"

Chris hesitated; this was all very odd, and it was beginning to send a shiver down his spine. The Pimpernel's activities were as illegal as they were celebrated; the English government forbade private interference with France's problems, and officially frowned on any troublemaking. Was this a trap after all?

The Pimpernel took another step forward, his strange disguised voice becoming a bit more gentle. "Sir Christopher," he said from the darkness, "I assure you this is not a game, or a trick, and you are in no danger. I have asked you here because I need your help, but you are free to refuse to offer it. If you choose to ride away now, I will not try to stop you."

Chris cocked his head. "You need...*my* help?"

"Yes." The voice was deadly serious.

He considered this, amazed at what was being offered to him. "You're asking me to join you?"

There was a pause.

"My friend," the featureless voice finally said quietly, "the days in France grow bloodier by the hour; my men, brave and true as they are, can no longer do all that needs to be done alone. I know you to be a man of courage and integrity. It is not I who need your help, but humanity itself. But consider your answer carefully: this is desperate work, and in joining me you will ally yourself with a group whom France considers one of its most dangerous enemies."

Chris stared at the dark mass in the tangled woods. It was undeniable that by agreeing to this, he would be placing his life at risk; he had seen the madness that had overtaken Sarah's country, witnessed the insanity of the bloodthirsty mobs. That horror had almost claimed him; no one, not even the Pimpernel, would blame him if he declined to throw himself back into that crimson hell. He had suffered enough.

He dropped his eyes, the thoughts churning through his head. What had he said to himself in those terrible days in the Conciergerie, seeing the madness, waiting to die? He had felt so damned helpless, so enraged that he could not save his family or stop what was happening all around him. With the help of Buck and Vin he had escaped, but so many never had the chance. Could he now face that deep horror again, to provide that chance to others?

Memories of his family wafted through his mind, wrapped in tender sadness. He had been unable to save them; the knife-like pain from that fact would never cease, but here was the opportunity to strike back at those bastards and keep them from committing others to this fate. His life, so empty the past two years, suddenly seemed lifted to a bright new purpose, one whose nature sent all thoughts of danger to the dim and distant shadows.

Chris raised his head, looking firmly at the Pimpernel. "Damn the danger," he said, squaring his shoulders. "When do we leave?"

The figure took another step forward. "This is a bold decision, my friend," he said. "Are you quite certain?"

Chris gave it a few final moments of thought. "As certain as I've been of anything the past eighteen months," he declared at length.

"You must swear," the Pimpernel continued solemnly, "by God and all that you hold most holy in your heart, never to reveal the identities of those in the League to anyone-not to servants, or friends, or kinsmen. It is for their protection as well as ours."

Silence fell as Chris paused at the threshold; this was the last chance to back out and ride home to safety. But safety held no charms now, with such important work to do. His expression held firm. "I swear it."

He thought he heard the shadowy figure sigh with relief. "Then welcome to the League, Christopher, and may God bless you for your bravery!" the Pimpernel said fervently.

The figure began to step out of the shadows into the moonlight.

Chris frowned at the familiar use of his name, puzzled.

"Do I know you?" he asked as the Pimpernel walked to the edge of the woods.

In an instant the man was standing in the full glow of the moonlight, the silver beams radiating off of his tall, powerful frame and thick, golden hair. He regarded Chris with an amused expression in his blue eyes as he threw back his cloak and said, in a smooth and perfectly normal voice, "Begad, Christopher, after fifteen-odd years, I should bloody well hope so!"

Chris stared at the man, utterly dumbfounded. It couldn't be... "Percy?!"

"Quite so, my friend," Sir Percy Blakeney replied with a wide smile.

Silence fell as Chris digested this. Percy...*Percy* was the Scarlet Pimpernel. No, wait, that was obviously impossible, Percy wouldn't risk his life for anything more serious than a properly tailored waistcoat. Chris thought about it, then began to laugh, the sound echoing from every tree in the deserted forest.

This merriment lasted for a full minute, until Percy said in a bemused tone, "Are you all right, old boy?"

"God, Percy," Chris gasped, wiping his eyes and nodding. "I have to admit, this was brilliant. You really got me, this time." He caught his breath and coughed. "Whew! Thank you. I haven't laughed like that for years. You, the Pimpernel. How did you ever come up with this?"

Percy smiled, not moving. "As pleased as I am to have lifted your spirits so high, my friend, I'm afraid this masquerade was rather easy, as it is no masquerade at all."

Chris shook his head with a grin as he put away his pistol. "Sorry, Percy, but I appreciate the effort to keep the joke going. Did Dewhurst put you up to this?"

"In a manner of speaking, he was involved, I daresay," Percy admitted. "But-"

"I thought so," Chris chuckled, drawing his cloak around his shoulders and walking back to his horse. "A very successful joke, Percy. Tomorrow we'll have to tell Buck and Vin about it at the tavern, they won't believe how completely you fooled me."

Percy trotted after him. "I promise you, my friend, this is no joke."

Chris sighed, wearying of the situation, and looked at Percy as he prepared to mount Valor. "Please, Percy, I'm extremely tired. This is going to stop being funny pretty soon."

Percy was beside him now, gazing into his face with an expression of deep earnestness. "Trust me, Christopher, the humor has left this situation long ago. I asked you here because I require your help; pray do not withdraw it. Too many are in desperate need."

Chris hesitated, squinting at him. He had never seen Percy so serious; he almost sounded sincere. But the idea of Percy-the foppish best-dressed man in London, who swooned at the mention of danger-being the Pimpernel was simply too ludicrous to consider. He appeared unwilling, however, to give up the joke.

An idea struck Chris; here was a way to make Percy confess the whole charade. He straightened and smiled. "All right, Percy, like I said, I appreciate how you're trying to cheer me, but this has gone far enough. I know you're not the Scarlet Pimpernel and I can prove it."

Percy seemed amused. "How, pray?"

Chris secretly anticipated his triumph; he rarely ever got the best of his clever friend. "It just so happens we met a man in the tavern today who was rescued by the Pimpernel, and he said that during their escape last month, the Pimpernel was badly wounded. So, if you're the Pimpernel, you can show me that wound and I'll believe you. Otherwise, you can just admit the truth and I can get home to bed."

There! Chris folded his arms and waited to see what Percy would do, since he obviously wouldn't have a healing sword wound on his arm. Which one did Standish say it was? The right arm. Well, it would be interesting to see if Percy would even try to guess where wound was supposed to be.

Percy gazed at Chris a moment, and Chris thought for sure he'd confess. Instead, to Chris's amazement, Percy reached up and began to unbutton his cloak.

Chris frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Acting on your request, old boy," Percy replied brightly as he pulled the cloak off and handed it to him. "Keep that off the ground, won't you? Demmed hard to clean, you know, and it shows every speck of dirt."

Chris frowned as Percy proceeded to strip off his maroon coat. "Percy, you don't-"

"Oh, no trouble at all, I assure you," Percy said cheerfully as he handed the coat to Chris. "Do mind that, it's Russian wool. Thank you."

Chris could think of nothing else to say as Percy unbuttoned his right sleeve. The garment was full and loose, so he had no trouble pulling it up almost to his shoulder. Even in the moonlight, it was easy to see a long, still-healing scar running down the arm-an arm far more muscular than Chris had expected it to be. The injury looked like it had once been a very bloody and painful sword wound.

Chris felt himself go cold. He lifted his eyes and stared at Percy.

His friend smiled a little, pride and chagrin mixing on his handsome face. "Quite frightful, I confess, but the other fellow got it rather worse, I fear."

Chris continued to stare; not even Percy would mutilate himself a full month in advance just for a joke. But that would mean...He swallowed, suddenly deeply embarassed, surprised and confused at the same time. "I'm...I'm sorry, Percy," he stammered, unsure of what else to say. "I, uh, I should have believed you, but...well, all the years I've known you, especially lately, you've been a...er..a..."

His friend cocked his head a bit, a bright look in his blue eyes as he regarded Chris with a small smile. "A nincompoop?"

Chris paused, then nodded reluctantly; he hadn't wanted to say it, but... "Well, yes."

Percy laughed and rolled down his sleeve. "Nonsense, my friend, perfectly all right. That's precisely what I want everyone to think. Truthfully, I'm demmed pleased you didn't believe me. If anyone suspected who I am, it would make it rather a hard go. You've just assured me my ruse is working." He buttoned the sleeve. "Be good enough to hand me my waistcoat, it's coming on a bit chilly. Beastly weather! Thank you."

Chris handed Percy his coat and cape, still bewildered. Percy, the Scarlet Pimpernel...The most famous man in England, and Chris had known him all along. All the tales he'd heard, the heroic exploits, the dangerous rescues-it had all been Percy.

"I think I need to sit down," Chris finally whispered, settling himself onto a nearby rock.

Percy fastened his cape, giving his friend an understanding look. "I apologize for all the blasted secrecy, Christopher, but I'm sure you know how important this all is. I couldn't risk your life by involving you unless I knew you were sure."

Chris looked at the river as it flowed by, shining like a stream of diamonds in the moonlight. "I've been sure for almost two years now, Percy," he murmured. Then he straightened and faced his friend. "But, Percy...why?"

Percy sat himself on a nearby rock and tilted his head. "Why what, dear boy?"

"Well-" Chris shook his head, trying to form his thoughts. "You're one of the richest men in England, you didn't have to get mixed up in this. All the years I've known you, you've never been one to rush into danger, risking your life for people you don't even know. There's an entire country now that wants you dead for what you're doing."

"Oh! Well," Percy looked out at the river as well, his expression becoming momentarily uncertain. "Don't paint me out as a saint, my friend, I fear I'd make a demmed poor one. Well, there's the sport of the thing, you know!" he exclaimed, glancing over at Chris with a grin. "Nothing quite so thrilling as snatching people right out from under the noses of those bastards. The lure of the chase, the excitement of adventure-it's most intoxicating, to be sure!" He paused and shrugged a bit. "And perhaps it is a touch of my poor mother's madness as well. Who can say, really?"

Chris watched him closely. "Sounded to me, from the way you were talking before, that there was more to all this than just adventure and a touch of madness, Percy."

The grin faltered and vanished, and Percy sighed as he turned his eyes back to the glistening river. "Yes," he said sadly, the light tones gone from his voice. "At last I lost one too many friends to that damn guillotine, and realized that simply waiting for the French to come to their senses wasn't going to work any longer. I saw how that infernal machine was devouring men, women and children whose only crime was that of displeasing the wrong people. And I knew how empty my life had been, devoid of anything but selfish and idle pursuits, and suddenly knew that it was not meant to stay that way."

His voice had dropped to barely a whisper, the words faltering and catching at times. After a moment, he turned and looked at Chris, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I need not tell you, my friend, what is happening in France. The slaughter goes on, with no one to stop it but those who have the courage to do so. God has granted me the means and strength for this fight, and given me good men who are as willing as I to stand against this madness. I am most thankful that He has also seen fit to guide you here as well. Together, we may just stand a chance."

He smiled, and held out his hand. Chris thought for a moment, then firmly grasped it.

"More than just a chance, I promise," he said with a determined expression, no longer feeling tired. "When do we start?"

"You must meet the others of the League," Percy replied, releasing Chris's hand and sitting back. "They'll be at the reception, I'll point them out to you. I daresay you know all of them. Demmed fine men, Christopher, the best in England."

"I'm sure," Chris replied, a new question suddenly coming to him. "Percy, does Marguerite know?"

Percy blinked, and Chris saw a new expression settle over his friend's handsome features, serious and somewhat sad. He was that way for only a moment, before covering the strong emotions with a slight laugh as he looked back out at the river.

"Sink me, a dull fellow like myself couldn't hide anything from a woman as clever as my Margot for long," he remarked softly. "Yes, my friend, she knows it all. Someday I'll tell you how it all came about, when the world is past this madness. She's even helped us a time or two."

Chris's eyes widened. "Marguerite's gone to France with the League?"

Percy glanced back at him, pride now shining in his face. "Gad, Christopher, so she has. You'd be amazed, old boy, how well my wife acquits herself. She's quite the skilled actress, you know, which has been a great help, and she has a spirit few of us can equal." He paused, overwhelmed, and shook his head, running one hand over his hair. "Why God gifted a fool like me with such a bedazzling creature for a wife, I'm sure I've no idea. She is my soul, Christopher. Without her, I would be the poorest wretch in England."

The final words were spoken in a soft voice thick with emotion. A painful memory seared Chris's heart suddenly; he'd thought the same way of Sarah, and easily recognized the impassioned gleam shining in Percy's eyes.

"God, Percy," he said, leaning forward, "if that's the case, how can you keep leaving her to go to France? I know whenever I left Sarah, it would just about kill me."

Percy dropped his eyes, fiddling with his cloak. "Well, my friend, truth be told, she asks me that very question every time I return, and I wish to God I knew how to answer it. It does break my heart to go, but the task at hand seems far too great to be halted by my selfish desires. It is a difficut dilemma-stay in England, and watch as the horrific massacre continues, or go to France and leave my beloved wife."

He sighed and lifted his head, gazing off into the woods. "And it is hard for her, I know," he said in a sad, gentle voice. "She bears its bravely, and understands that this is a duty which calls to me above all else, but nevertheless, it is hard. I tell myself that she will be waiting for me at the end of every road, and that gives me the strength to do what must be done. God willing, when this is all over, we will be able to regain all the time we have lost."

"I hope so, Percy," Chris said earnestly, after a few moments of silence.

Percy contemplated the river for another second, then shook himself. "Well," he said in a lighter tone, turning to Chris, "no more morbid thoughts, eh? I daresay with you along, we'll have the Frenchies turned upside down in no time. I trust your skills at swordplay and French are quite intact?"

Chris thought a moment. "My French might be a bit rusty, but I don't think I'll have any trouble. And you can ask some fellows in the towns along the north roads about my swordplay, if they've recovered enough to talk."

"Good!" Percy enthused. "We try to avoid that sort of thing, but you never know when events might turn rough. With enough planning and cleverness, we can outsmart them without shedding a drop of blood, and have a jolly time while we're at it. I'll tell you all you need to know."

He stood, and fished something out of his pocket. "What I had in mind, my friend, was to form something of a second branch of the League-that way we may be able to sneak twice as many out from under their noses. Do you know of anyone you would trust with your life, who may be willing to join our little group?"

Buck and Vin instantly came to Chris's mind. "A few, yes," he said aloud.

"Excellent," Percy said as Chris stood. "If you are agreeable, I should like to set you in charge, after you and your friends have come along with us a few times to see how it's done. I will send you instructions by sealed note, and you must follow these instructions only. They will carry the mark of my family crest-the scarlet pimpernel."

He held up his hand. Chris peered at it, discerning a ring shining in the moonlight, a large oval signet ring with an image in the center of a small, four-petaled flower.

Chris smiled to himself and shook his head. "I kept trying to think where I'd seen that flower before. I never noticed it was your family crest."

"Fortunately, most people haven't," Percy replied with a grin. "A common red roadside flower-small and unobstrusive, what? The perfect disguise." He handed Chris a piece of paper held in his other hand. "If you should want more men for your band, I'd ask that you try to locate these fellows-they've worked with us on an occasion or two, and have proven most trustworthy. I'm sure they'd give Madame Guillotine a hard time of it."

Christ glanced down at the two names. He didn't recognize the first name, Josiah Sanchez, but knew the other one instantly.

"Ezra Standish?" he exclaimed in surprise, looking up.

Percy eyed him. "You've met the fellow?"

"He's the one we saw at the tavern, who told us about your arm," Chris said with a slight laugh of disbelief. "Are you sure you want him along? He was wagering with one of your signed notes, you know."

Percy grinned. "Sink me! Well, I'm sure it was in no danger of falling into the wrong hands."

"How can you be so sure?" Chris inquired.

"For one, he has the devil's own luck with cards," Percy sniffed, still smiling, "And two, his abilities to, shall we say, nudge the game to his favor when that luck is against him, are also most remarkable."

The other man grinned as well, catching on. "He was cheating?"

The baronet shrugged. "Can't say for sure, of course, old boy, but it wouldn't surprise me. Standish is full of the most clever tricks and ploys-he can insinuate himself anywhere, that's why I thought you might find him useful. If there is any knowledge to be had on disguises and ruses, he will know it. If he don't get himself strung up outside Newgate, he'll have a most fascinating career, I'm sure."

Chris nodded; they'd need help with tricks and disguises if this was going to work. "And Sanchez?"

"A fascinating fellow as well," Percy said, pulling his cape tighter. "Lived in Paris for some time, and knows the city intimately. We had quite an intriguing conversation once, he spent his younger years preaching to the tribes in America and had the most interesting ideas about the place. You'll find him at the old St. Sebastian chapel along the river. I daresay, you'll have a worthy band of merry men before too long!"

Chris folded the paper and put it in his pocket, looking up at Percy. "I'll do all I can to help you, Percy," he promised. "For Sarah and Adam."

His friend smiled and clasped his shoulder. "I'm sure you will, Christopher," he replied. "Now perhaps we'd best call it a night, eh? Before we both catch our deaths in this ghastly chill. Find as many men as you think you'll need, and we'll converse at the reception."

"I take it I don't mention your name just yet?" Chris guessed as he shrugged his cape more fully onto his shoulders.

"An accurate supposition, my friend," Percy said with a nod. "Just tell them the mission for now, and warn them that they must be prepared to blend into the French and be ready to face anything. This is a most desperate endeavor, as you know, and those who undertake it must be aware of the hell we are riding into."

Chris nodded firmly. "I'll tell them. And if I can't find anyone willing to come with me...I'll go alone, if it means putting a stop to this."

Percy squared his shoulders, regarding his friend with a proud expression. "So you would, my friend, but I pray that will not be necessary. Safe journey home, Christopher, and I shall see you at the reception. Good night!"

With that, Percy gave a nod, which Chris returned, and Chris watched him walk quickly back into the woods, blending swiftly into the dark underbrush. After a few moments, Chris heard the soft, diminishing thud of hoofbeats as the Scarlet Pimpernel rode back to Richmond.

Still a bit dazed, Chris mounted Valor and spurred the beast towards his own home, thinking about everything he had just seen and heard this night. The path he had chosen would not be easy, by any means; the fight might be long, difficult, and dangerous, with a painful, bloody death possible at the end of it. But those considerations did not dim the bright light of purpose now shining before him. This was a fight he intended to win.

He turned the horse, and headed for home.