Author's Note: Based on chapters 3-6 of the original novel, though this story actually takes place sometime post-'Pimpernel', pre-'Elusive'.

None of the characters belong to me; all were created by Baroness Orczy.

There are a few more chapters to come, so stay tuned, and please, enjoy!

~ W.J.

Reparation Between Gentlemen

Chapter 1: The Turkey and the Bantam

On the grounds of a grandiose estate inRichmond, beneath an arbour of late-blooming roses, a pair of lovers stood, their dainty silhouette framed by a flower-laden archway.

The fragrant blooms were lovely indeed, but they could not compare to the beauty of the lady, with her halo of chestnut curls, her warm brown eyes bedewed with tears, looking very like a grieving woodland fairy. Nor could the twisting boughs of the thorned vine compete for strength with the resilient young gentleman who stood at her side, dressed irreproachably in a delicately embroidered waistcoat in the most fashionable hue of the times. They were a fine-looking couple as they stood there, he dressed in his courtly finery, a very adult form of dignity in every line of his young frame; she in her simple muslin frock and lace cap, fresh and innocently childlike. They were from opposite sides of the Channel, these two; yet the fine, sharp lines of the Gallic face somehow complimented the rounder, softer features of the Anglo-Saxon. Beneath the filmy lace of his sleeve cuff, his hand was stiffly clenched upon the hilt of the fine sword at his waist, even as she clasped her own slender hands before her in appealing supplication, and said:

"Please don' go, milor'! This be folly, and t'ain't worth riskin' yer life over!"

Her sweet, uncultured country voice flowed forth with an undercurrent of sorrow, of aching fearfulness. He wavered visibly, moved by her touching concern despite himself; then the firm brow reasserted its hard line, the mouth tightened, his whole countenance becoming set with determination.

"But I must go, cherie, I must." His expression softened for a moment. "But have a leetle faith in myself, ma chère; the blackguard has not got my life yet." Though he spoke in competent English, he faltered slightly over his words, and his foreign accent was clearly perceptible, slightly rolling his consonants and exaggerating his vowels.

Still the tears gathered in the dear girl's eyes. "I 'ave faith milor'; I do hold out hope. But even if you win, sir, should you be caught, it'd spell yer ruin. Yer a strong one, sirrah, but you ain't been over 'ere long; you don' know this man like we local folk do. Despite all 'is faults, sir, he's not one to be taken lightly; the man is the Prince's close friend, an' he's got pals in all the 'igher up circles. What's more, he looks to 'ave all the strength of an ox, an' they say that at fencin' he-"

"He might be as accomplished as the legendary D'artagnan," the young man said gravely, himself possessed of a fine Gascon sense of pride, "but still, though his arm might wield the guile of Artemis and the strength of Thor, I must take up my sword against him."

At these words the poor lass uttered a loud sob and buried her face in her apron. Without so much as blinking, he gazed steadily down at her, not fazed by her tears as an Englishman might have been. Despite his steely resolve, his was an ardent French heart, with the capacity to feel as much passion as any woman.

"I do not ask that you understand, mon amour," he said to her, tenderly. "This thing I must do iz connected to mine honour. I should not think to request my papa and maman's blessing for our marriage, if I did not first achieve zis thing. If I so easily swallowed mine pride, I would not think myself fit to hold your leetle hand." And so saying, he took her hand and, with the courtly ceremony of the time, he kissed her barest fingertips. Pretty Sally was not of aristocratic birth; she was a lowly kitchen wench and serving maid at a prosperous, yet still very humble, roadside establishment. That this fine gentleman – a French Vicomte, no less – should stoop to kiss her hand… why, for a moment the girl ceased even to cry, so overawed was she by the incredible love she had inspired in this fiery, noble heart.

"I pray for yer safety, milor'," she said softly, when he had dropped her hand and she had again sufficient wits to speak.

"A çà, mademoiselle, I have no fear for myself, so long as I have your gentle thoughts following me. If I win, I lay my pride down at your dear feet; if not, I fall a man of honour, who was in some way worthy of your affection. And now, adieu, ma chère."

With a last wistful glance, he turned on his heel and strode purposefully out of the arbour. She remained, watering the flowers with yet more tears, looking after him with a feverish gaze. She could still see him now where he waited, pacing up and down the avenue of yew trees like a caged animal, longing to pounce. He circled up and down several times, his pace becoming ever swifter with impatience; then, a firm tread was heard crunching on gravel. He stopped stock still, tensing at the sound; beneath the nodding sprays of roses, Sally gasped and turned towards its source.

A man was coming down the avenue. Unlike the young Vicomte's nervous tread, his gait was completely casual and unhurried. In contrast to the slim, lithe form of the Frenchman, this man was massively built, broad of shoulder and of towering height, even for an Englishman. Indeed, even the impetuous Vicomte may have felt intimidated, if it weren't for the affected, mincing gait of the slender, elegantly-shod feet; the impudently cheery tune hummed by the foolish lips; the lazy, almost imbecilic expression which dulled the heavy-lidded blue eyes. This whole person was clothed in the epitome of fabulous taste; even Sally's loyal, affectionate gaze could not refrain from passing with admiration over the cream suit, extravagantly cut in the 'Incroyable' style, with its over-large lapels swinging either side of an artistically-arrayed cravat, the pale satin of the whole outfit shimmering like a single moonbeam in the summer twilight.

The most fastidious fop in all ofLondonwas on a collision course with the most fiery, affront sense of pride the good noblesse ofFrancehad left to offer.

The Englishman advanced leisurely down the avenue, then, seeing the Vicomte standing in the shadow of the trees, his heavy features registered mild surprised. He came to an uncertain halt, remaining a polite distance away from the youth, whose countenance had become all the more warlike at his arrival.

"You are in recept of my message, Monsieur," the Vicomte said stiffly, since the Englishman seemed to be courteously waiting for the other to speak first.

"Indeed, sir!" he said at last in his inimitable, drawly tones. "So you are the good author of that curious epistle! You are a good deal younger than I imagined my correspondent to be! Beg pardon, but I am not familiar with thine name, my good, erm, Turney-"

"Tournay!" the Vicomte corrected him curtly, his fine, white aristocratic face, which was already suffused with heat, now turning a truly livid hue.

"La! Quite so, my good Viscount… erm, Tournay," the Englishman reiterated with a shy laugh, looking genuinely apologetic. "Do excuse me, I never could cotton to foreign names…"

"And yet," uttered the youth, who was all but shuddering in his violent effort to reign in his temper, "your wife had no trouble in pronounzing the name 'St Cyr' before the Revolutionary Tribunal…"

"But it is not to be wondered at, sir," rejoined the other blandly, "for she is a Frenchwoman by birth, and what is more happens to be in possession of a particularly clever tongue. I do wish I could 'parlour francay' half as well as you newly-landed Frenchies manage to imitate our dull old British phrases."

His countenance becoming ever stormier, Tournay asked through clenched teeth: "You do not object to your wife's demnation of an innocent man to death, Monsieur Blakeney?"

Seemingly oblivious of the Vicomte's wrath, Sir Percy shrugged his elegantly-clad shoulders. "I wish to confer death on very few men in this world, Vicomte – yourself excluded from that few, of course – but my wife's fancies are quite her own, and I fain interfere in her affairs. A trick that you would do well to employ when you yourself seek matrimony, sir."

But this last comment, seemingly so callously and unwittingly delivered, was too much for the Vicomte, with the eyes of his English sweetheart in the rose arbour still upon him. With a fierce gesture, he drew his sword from the scabbard and brandished it at Sir Percy.

"Monsieur," he said tersely, his expression utterly dark, "in order to regain mine honour and zat of my muther, I must seek from you the only reparation possible between gentlemen."

It was a belated rematch between the French bantam and the English turkey.

Edit: I have now attempted to correct some of the faulty French which was previously in this chapter. I hope it's better, and sorry for any mistakes which might still me in there - I don't speak French!