“So now you’ve turned to kidnapping.”
“I use whatever works,” said Finn. “I’ve got to get that kid away from Mongoose.”
Cobra nodded. “Good luck. Meanwhile, I’ve got some information you can use. The Republican government has sent a representative to England. His name is Chauvelin.”
“Our spy.”
“That’s right. We’ll have to be very careful about him.”
“We, huh?”
Cobra grinned. “How about that? Looks like we’re working together after all.”
Finn made a wry face. “Well, it’s about time something on this mission started making sense,” he said.
Most of London society turned out to attend the premiere of Gluck’s Orpheus at Covent Garden. Among those attending the opera were several notable recent emigres from France, none of whom failed to notice the slight, black-clad man seated beside Lord Grenville in his box. Citizen Chauvelin was not unknown to them. The infamous right hand of Public Prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville met the baleful glances of his former countrymen and women with a slight smile and a small inclination of his head. This gesture so infuriated them that they immediately looked away and ignored him for the remainder of the evening, a reaction Chauvelin found somewhat amusing.
“It would seem that you are not entirely unknown in London,” Lord Grenville said to him as the curtain was about to go up on the performance.
“Only because I was not entirely unknown in France,” said Chauvelin. “I see a good number of familiar faces here tonight, French men and women enjoying the hospitality of your government.”
“We try to be equally hospitable to everyone,” Lord Grenville said, “regardless of their class.”
“Yes, we, too, have no regard for class,” said Chauvelin. “You will recall our slogan, ‘Liberty, fraternity and equality.’ “ He smiled. “Only in England, it seems that some people are more equal than others.”
Grenville’s reply was cut short by the start of the performance and he turned his attention to the stage. Chauvelin, however, had not the slightest interest in the opera. His attention was upon the box adjacent to theirs, where Lady Marguerite Blakeney sat with her husband. Chauvelin’s hand, as if of its own volition, fluttered up to pat his jacket pocket, feeling the letter hidden there, and he smiled. During the intermission, he excused himself and made his way to the Blakeneys’ box. Sir Percy had stepped out and Lady Blakeney was alone. It was an ideal opportunity.
“Good evening, Citoyenne,” he said, slipping into the chair next to hers. “I told you that we would meet again in London.”
“So you did,” said Marguerite. “How are you enjoying the performance, Chauvelin?”
The little Frenchman shrugged. “To be quite honest, I have no ear for music, although I find the pageantry of some slight interest.”
“Well, I am glad that we have been able to interest you at least to some degree,” said Marguerite.
Chauvelin smiled. “Yes, well, perhaps I may interest you, Citoyenne. You will recall the discussion that we had in Dover?”
“If you recall our discussion,” Marguerite said, “then you shall also recall my answer.”
“Indeed,” said Chauvelin. “I was hoping that I could persuade you to change your mind.”
“My answer still remains the same,” said Marguerite, stiffly.
Chauvelin’s smile became even wider. “Yet I remain confident that I can prevail upon you to reconsider,” he said. “I have here a letter which I think will greatly interest you.” He reached into his pocket and passed the paper over to her. “It is a copy, of course. I retain the original. I am not greatly skilled in these matters, but I have made an effort to reproduce the hand as exactly as I could, along with the signature, to which I would draw your attention in particular. I trust you will recognize it.”
Marguerite grew pale as she read the letter. “Where did you get this?”
“From two young gentlemen named Ffoulkes and Dewhurst,” Chauvelin said. “I knew them to be members of this League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, you see, so l thought it prudent to have my men…how shall I say it?… incapacitate them temporarily so that I might examine them for clues. This letter was quite interesting, I thought, but folded together with it was another note, from which I learned that there would be a meeting between Andrew Ffoulkes and the Scarlet Pimpernel at Lord Grenville’s ball at the Foreign Office. I trust that you will be in att
endance?”
“Yes,” said Marguerite, in a low voice. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the paper. It wasn’t Armand’s handwriting, but it was a copy close enough to tell her that Chauvelin had worked from a sample of the original. “We have been invited.” She swallowed hard and made an effort to compose herself. “You are indeed quite bold, Chauvelin, to assault Englishmen in their own country like a common bandit.”
“I had uncommon cause,” said Chauvelin, taking the paper from her hands and replacing it in his pocket. “You see, I know that the English, above all, insist on the proper form in all things. As an accredited representative of my government, I could hardly be accused of doing such a thing without conclusive proof. Your word would carry weight, I’m sure, but under the circumstances, I feel confident that you will keep my little secret.”
“What do you want?” said Marguerite, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I thought that I had made that quite clear,” said Chauvelin. “I merely want you to listen and observe. Your brother has, quite foolishly, aligned himself with these criminals and has seriously compromised himself, as you can see. You can well imagine what his fate would be if this letter fell into the hands of Citoyen Fouquier-Tinville. However, I have no wish to see any ill befall Armand St. Just. I am satisfied that he is not a criminal, only misguided in his idealism. Still, people have lost their heads for far less than what he has done.”