“If you’re looking for that ruffian,” said Finn, “I saw him leap from the coach and run off into the woods.”
The soldier spun to face him. “Where? How far back?”
“Damn me, I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Finn, producing a handkerchief and waving it in front of his nose. He hoped his imitation of Blakeney’s voice would pass. He had not had much time to practice and he wished he had Lucas Priest’s gift for mimicry. “I was hell bent for leather to try to catch this runaway coach and rescue my poor wife,” said Finn, with a touch of indignation. “I was far too anxious about her welfare to concern myself with your renegade aristocrat. He jumped off back there, somewhere.” He waved his handkerchief in the direction of the road back to Paris.
“You three,” said the officer, indicating several of his men, “ride back and comb the woods; he couldn’t have gone far.”
The men wheeled their horses and galloped off in the direction from which they came.
“Have you seen a wagon,” said the officer, “loaded with wine casks?”
“Lord, what do I know of wagons?” Finn said, rolling his eyes. “I was almost killed back there! And my wife was almost shot! There’s a hole inside the coach where the ball passed through scant inches from her head! It was a dreadful experience, quite unnerving. I fear that I won’t sleep for weeks! My insides are all in knots. This is all too much for my frail constitution. All I desire to do is get back to merry England and leave you to your Revolution. I don’t care if I never set foot on French soil again!”
“France will survive quite well without your kind, I think,” the officer said with a sneer.
“Yes, but I fear that I may not survive France,” said Finn. He leaned against the coach for support and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “Gad, what a horrible experience! That terrible man! I hope you’ll catch him and clap him in the Bastille.”
“We shall do a great deal more than that,” the soldier said. He put away his pistol, satisfied that Blakeney was no threat. “You are bound for Calais?”
“Yes, if we can arrive there safely without being killed along the way,” said Finn. “Lord only knows what dangers await us on the road! I would be most grateful if you and your men would see us to our destination safely. I would feel far more secure in the company of soldiers of the Republic.”
“Soldiers of the Republic have far more important things to do than to nursemaid weak-kneed Englishmen,” the lieutenant said, harshly. “I would advise you to be on your way and not to stop until you’ve reached Calais. I wish you a speedy crossing of the Channel and good riddance.”
The officer mounted and rode off with his two remaining men, heading away from the city on the trail of the wine wagon. Finn took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“And good riddance to you,” said Finn. “Are you all right, my dear? You gave me quite a fright.”
Lady Blakeney gave him an arch look. “It would appear that it does not take very much to frighten you, Percy.”
“Not much, you say? Why, having my own wife almost shot to death and myself almost being trampled by a horse and then accosted by those rough-mannered brigands who have the temerity to call themselves soldiers-why, I would say that it was much, indeed!”
As he spoke, Finn took her measure. Marguerite Blakeney was twenty-five years old, tall, and very well-proportioned with an ample bosom, a trim waist and long, slender legs, one of which was briefly visible as she descended from the coach.
Her bright blue eyes met Finn’s as she attempted to effect repairs upon her coiffure, the lustrous auburn hair having been disarranged while she was jostled about inside the coach. She was even lovelier in person, for the holographic image of her Finn had seen had not captured her voice and its inflections, her mannerisms, and it had caught only a hint of her earthy sensuality. There was, however, a certain air of hostility about her, testimony to the deteriorating relationship between herself
and Blakeney.
She had a bit of the gamin in her, Finn saw, though it did not detract in the least from her beauty. Rather, it enhanced it. Her facial expressions betrayed pride and stubbornness and although she hid it well, Finn could see that she had been hurt by Blakeney. Undoubtedly, she felt rejected, though Finn had no way of knowing whether or not the St. Cyr affair had ever been discussed between them or if Blakeney had simply accepted it as a matter of course and, having been satisfied that it was true, had locked it away inside himself like a guilty secret, never to be spoken of or even referred to. He decided, for the sake of prudence, to adopt the latter attitude, unless Marguerite brought the matter up herself. He also decided to play it very close to the vest, for Marguerite’s eyes were shrewd and observant as she regarded him with a faintly puzzled air.
“Are you quite well, my husband?” she said, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Somehow, you don’t sound quite yourself.”
“I’m as well as could be expected for a man who’s come so near to death,” he said, leaning back against the coach and shutting his eyes as he fanned himself with his handkerchief. “Faith, my dear, you must have the courage of a lion! That pistol ball could not have passed but a hair’s breadth from your head and there you stand, calm as can be, asking me if I am well! Would that I were made of such stern stuff, my heart would not then be pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil!”
“Well, then when your heart has stopped its fearsome pounding, perhaps we could continue on our journey,” Marguerite said. “We shall not make Calais before tomorrow, even if we drive hard all the way.” She glanced up at the empty box and sighed. “I fear that you will have to play the coachman. It appears that our fainthearted driver was frightened even more than you were.”
“That’s the trouble with these new ‘citizens,’” said Finn. “They put their own petty concerns above their duty. Well, it appears that there’s nothing for it. I shall have to drive, then. With any luck, we will make Amiens tonight and reach Calais tomorrow. Are you quite certain that you’re up to a hard ride? We could travel at an easy pace, but I’m suddenly very anxious to go on with all dispatch. I fear that I shan’t feel safe until we’re on board the Day Dream.”
Marguerite smiled, wryly. “Well, then I shall muster up my lion’s courage and steel myself for the dangers of our journey.” Her voice fairly dripped with sarcasm. “If you would be so kind, Percy, as to assist me back into the coach?”
Finn gave her his arm and helped her up, then closed the door and mounted up into the box. He whipped up the horses and drove the coach back onto the road. He drove at a brisk pace and, within fifteen minutes or so, the coach came within sight of the soldiers once again. There were only three of them, the officer and his two men, the others no doubt still beating the brush for the nonexistent ci-devant aristo. Finn saw that the soldiers had caught up to Fitzroy’s decoy wine wagon. They had pulled it off to the side of the road, where the old man stood beside his young “son,” wringing his hands and wailing as the soldiers tore the wagon apart board by board, searching for the Duc de Chalis. The officer looked up and gave Finn a scornful glance as Finn gave him a cheery wave as the coach passed by.
It was already night when they reached Amiens and the horses were all done in. Finn took a room for them at an inn and saw to it that the coach and horses would be stabled for the night and made ready for them early the next morning. Marguerite went up to the room to freshen up while Finn stayed downstairs and drank some wine.
So far, so good, he thought. Marguerite had accepted him as Blakeney, though there had never really been any question about that. He was, after all, the spitting image of Sir Percy Blakeney now and he had been prepared as thoroughly as possible to play the role. For Marguerite to suspect him of being an impostor was impossible. However, he would take Fitzroy’s advice and tread with care.
There was a great deal to be done. Percy Blakeney had spent most of his young life away from England. He would be known at court, of course, since the late Algernon Blakeney had been a peer of the realm and the family holdings were extensive. Blakeney was one of the richest men in England. That, in itself, would be enough to secure his place in court society, but it would not be enough for this scenario.
Finn would have to establish Blakeney’s character in such a manner that he would never be suspected of being the Scarlet Pimpernel. He would also have to make certain that a distance would remain between himself, as Blakeney, and Marguerite. Otherwise, he might not be able to function as the Pimpernel. Finn could count on Lucas and Andre to help him in his efforts to join Ffoulkes and Dewhurst as the first members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Beyond that, he would be working in the dark.