The Seduction Plot

"You'll know. He's a dandy. A rich, empty-headed fool who can't even speak French." Aside he murmured, "I don't know what she sees in him!"

Aha, Teresia thought, so there's a woman involved! It was a careless slip on Chauvelin's part, which spoke volumes to the astute Spaniard. Had he been completely in control of his feelings, Armand Chauvelin would never have made such a mistake. This woman must be someone special indeed. Teresia, now almost certain that this was a personal favour which he asked of her, itched to know more. She dared not ask him directly, but she would disown the name Teresia Cabarrus if she could not get the details from him some other way. Her large, dark eyes flashed mischievously. "So tell me, Citizen Chauvelin," she said pointedly, "since when has it been government policy to seduce every tall Englishman, who can't speak French?"

"Ever since formerly loyal citizens have started running off with such members of a country that we are officially at war with." Chauvelin coolly resumed the paperwork that he had left when his visitor had met for her appointment.

"I will remind you, however, that neither the Republic, *or* myself, has ever tolerated questioning of orders." He leaned over his desk after dropping his pen back in its well, and suppressed a sneer. "Your talents, Citoyenne, are hardly unique. If you are unwilling to act in an appropriate manner, I shall go and find some other attractive woman versed in espionage. Now. Are there any other questions?"

Damn, she had been wrong! Either Chauvelin was not as vulnerable as she had first thought, or he was being deliberately cold in order to hide his emotions. Whichever, Teresia had a strong enough sense of self-preservation not to push the matter any further at that precise moment. No matter, there would be other occasions, better suited to her purpose, when she could probe the subject and get a satisfactory result. She would not forget. Teresia had an excellent memory and a burning, feline curiosity. It made her good at her job.

"No. No questions." She stood to leave. "No te precupes, citizen. Cinderella shall go to the ball and who knows, when the clock strikes midnight, Prince Charming might just be sporting a tricouleur cockade!" She laughed at her immodest analogy and looked down at Chauvelin, waiting for him to reply or dismiss her.

Chauvelin remained unamused, and gazed quietly into her face until she was done speaking. "Indeed," he began dryly, folding his hands over his papers. "I suppose we'll see soon, then, won't we. Good luck, Citoyenne; and don't stay too long away. If you need anything, you have my contact information. Thank you." He resumed his day's work, effectively dismissing her, allowing his placid mask to drop only slightly when she had finally left the room. His doubts were nagging, now, as usual. . .

Teresia swept out of the room. Some people were chilled by Robespierre's tiger-cat grin, that humourless smile which reveled in the morbid anticipation of a rival's discomfiture, but la senora Cabarrus feared Chauvelin's tiger-cat eyes more. His cold, green stare could bore into her very mind and read the blue-print of her soul. Flirt and act relaxed in his presence she may do, but she was never entirely at ease nor able to trust him completely. Only when the door closed behind her did she feel free of that constant scrutiny. Friends like citizen Chauvelin, mused Teresia to herself, made one appreciate the light relief of one's enemies!

Kicking his heels in the ante-chamber she found the multi-talented citizen Andre-Louis Moreau, a slender man of medium height from a village just outside Nantes. At his side hung a sword, which was anything but an affectation. Deputy Moreau had been persuaded to join the Assembly by Danton at a time when a few members of the 1st Estate, still smarting at the King's decision to acknowledge the 3rd Estate, had taken to provoking duels with the provincial representatives, many of whom had never fenced in their lives. Moreau killed the comte de Chabrillane and seriously wounded several others before some royalist hack discovered him to be the master of a thriving fencing academy in the Rue du Hasard. Now he worked for the CPS. "I hear St. Cyr holds the most lavish banquets north of Versailles." Teresia was startled by this. How did he know? She gave him a questioning glance.

"You have been invited, non?"

"I have had that honour." Replied she, tonelessly enough to convey that it was hardly an honour.

"Such a pity it will be his last!" The look on his face as he said this enrolled Teresia as the latest to believe that Andre-Louis, of dubious parentage, was not just a bastard, but also a heartless one. "Enjoy yourself senora, but keep away from St. Cyr after tomorrow night." "Estas loco!" She said half amused, half in horror. "The WORLD is mad Teresia. I'm merely a symptom of the disease!" So saying he gave a grin and disappeared into Chauvelin's office.

Moreau's words stuck in her mind as the carriage jolted towards St. Cyr's chateau. The marquis had been denounced, that much was obvious; but these were the long gone, hazy days when denunciations were based on provable facts, not suspicions. Teresia adjusted her mantilla in the gloom, the only relic of her past, and wondered who had provided those facts. And how much did Moreau know? He had tried to warn her. St. Cyr was a powder keg, which she should take pains to avoid lest the CPS decided to light the fuse. She pulled at the neckline of her dress until grace alone kept it from slipping off her shoulders. Whatever happened that night with Blakeney, she would not agree to another meeting at St. Cyr’s abode.

The lights were lighted, the music played and a few brave couples were attempting the first minuet of the evening. It was a far cry from the passionate dancing which took place at the sort of establishments she normally frequented. Teresia was announced and then greeted by the marquise, who had bad teeth and consequently bad breath. From her vantage point on the stairs she could survey the room. At first she thought it would be an impossible task to locate one stranger in a room of hundreds, but then she saw him at the far end of the ballroom, chatting and laughing with two other gentlemen. He stood several inches taller than any man in the room and, as he had his back to her, she took a little time to admire him from afar. The professional in Teresia knew that she could not approach Blakeney directly, so she spent a good half-hour mingling and making small talk with some of the most anally retentive people she had ever met. All the while, some invisible force dragged he eyes back for 'just one more look' at this English Baronet. Should she speak to him in English straight away? No, no that would be too obvious. When the time came she would innocently use French.

Eventually she arrived at his little group. For the very first time she saw his face and could honestly say that the front more than lived up to the back. She smiled at each man in turn, lingering a little longer than necessary with Sir Percy, "Bonsoir messieur!"

The ball of the Marquis was for looks only. Trying to keep up a facade of the normalism life style so no one would suspect their true patriotism. Blakeney knew this. He had already begun the thought processes and started the wheels in motion. He came tonight to help support his friend. The time would draw near when he would be leaving France and escaping to the safety and comfort of England.

There were more people present at this affair than the Baronet knew. Just a small handful he could recognize by sight. Most of the names he had heard, but the faces he never met. It didn't matter really. Sir Percy was fine laughing with strangers or making a fool out of himself amongst friends.

He was telling his version of a cricket game, which of course most of the French could care less about, when she joined the group. "So with my hand just throbbing from the splinter, and the ball bruising my chest, I just cried out: 'Are you trying to make me miss my swing or just trying to make me miss the game?'" He busted out into a gaiety of laughs and glanced over at the girl greeting the rest. The others did not seem even remotely amused at the British game or joke, but they smiled politely enough.

Looking at the woman next to him, Sir Percy smiled. "Well, was that a hello or goodbye? I say, a most marvelous French accent!"

"Most definitely a 'hello', Monsieur." She converted to English, knowing that her Spanish accent was stronger in that tongue, and blushed at his compliment of her French. What is the matter with me, she thought as she felt herself color, I never blush! But, Teresia had also never seen his like before. In Oviedo, the cathedral city in which she had spent her childhood, all the men had been short with dark Hispanic looks. The French, as a rule were not much taller, and even in cosmopolitan Paris it was rare to find such striking blue eyes and sandy-coloured hair.

She inched a little closer. Her game was akin to chess, the idea is to force your opponent to make the moves you want without them realizing it. She must get him to introduce himself. "You are English, yes?"

"I certainly hope so. I was just telling these fine gentleman about my last game of cricket." He turned to the group, as this beautiful woman and her lovely Spanish accent was making him yearn for Marguerite, whom he had to excuse himself for a late evening of business. "Do any of you play Cricket? I mean, poor story I have if you do not." Seeing the blank stares and very polite smiles, Sir Percy tossed his hand in the air and laughed, "Well! There it is then!" Turning, he nodded an excuse of himself. "Pardon me, I see a man with a tray that has a quiche with my name on it." Sir Percy hurriedly made his way over to the servant with food.

She watched him turn away in vexation; but she was not done yet. Hastily withdrawing from the group she took a short-cut through the throng and intercepted him as he reached the servant carrying quiche. "You have the most amazing laugh, monsieur...?" She left the title as a question, hoping he would oblige with an answer.

She left the question open ended just as the Baronet, who did not realize she was speaking to him at first, put a full small quiche into his mouth. He smiled in his polite manner at he was caught with a full amount of food and nodded his head at her. Blakeney brought the napkin up to tap at the sides of his mouth to chew.

"You English are lucky to have such a gift. In Spain it is not done to laugh at one's royalty* and now Carlos III fears the Revolution so much that he has severed all links with his cousins in France." She shook her head sadly, then brighten, "But the English see humour in everything: royalty, politics, themselves... even this game you call cricket! A country which laughs, will never revolt." she prophesied. There was much more to the social situation in Britain which precluded revolution, but no reason quite so flattering as that one.

She helped herself to a slice of quiche. "Cricket sounds fascinating. I'd love to hear about it, even if those bores don't." she nodded back to the group they had left. To her surprise she found that this was true. Teresia DID like his laugh, inane as it was and she did want to learn about cricket, providing that HE taught her.

Swallowing, he smiled and nodded at her in a lazy, but happy manner. This was not the first time some beautiful woman had approached him as a ball or gala. He was rather bored with them in the past few years, but he also was now courting the beautiful Maeve whom he missed already on this eve. Seeing his fine attire. Most knowing who he was, In England however, it almost became a dodging game he perfected over the years. Who can marry the richest man in all of England? His answer: Ha! Not you!

Being around this eccentric accent was only making his heart grieve more and he dully listened to her speak, wishing to be anywhere but in her presence. "I suppose we all become bored over time." He did not want to appear rude, so he reached over and took another small quiche from the tray and glanced about for the man walking about with the drink.

A small frown appeared on Teresia's forehead. She had never had to introduce herself before and burned with indignation at the man, who would force her to break this habit of a lifetime. She remembered being told that the English were different from Latins, more reserved; but she had not believed it until now. "Oh, Santa Maria! Here I am merrily talking away, but you don't even know my name." She said this as if the thought had only just occurred to her. "Teresia Cabarrus, Comtesse de Fontenay. Pleased to make your acquaintance." This final phrase was stilted, as though she'd learnt it by heart from a book. She proffered a hand, which she hoped he would take.

Blakeney watched with almost a delight, seeing the tiny frown form across her exotic Latin features. People were fun, and he decided to make this strange woman his new game. "Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet of Richmond Milady Cabarrus. Pleasure." He took her offered hand and kissed the fingertips, holding her small hand in his gloved one. It had only been one week ago the hand had encountered in a mad rage a guard's face. The scars where healing, but still apparent and the gloves were needed.

Teresia could do so much more with a touch than with a thousand words. She decided that she would have to be less subtle with this aloof quarry, as he was obviously misinterpreting the signals she was sending. The orchestra began a new tune. "Would you care to dance, Sir?"

Four weeks ago, her forwardness would have surprised and interested him. After spending so much time with the cleverest woman in Europe however, he was not as easily intrigued by her beauty or attitude. Sir Percy gave on the look of almost shocking, and brought his gloved hand up to his cravat. "I dare say! Quite a thing for a woman to ask a gentleman." Blakeney was toying with her, but hiding well his enjoyment of it.

Dios mio, but this man was infuriating! She hardly knew what to make of his reactions. Teresia opened her mouth to reply, but never got the chance. A voice behind her said, "Did I hear you say you wished to dance senora? Would you do me the honour?"

She turned to see a small Frenchman, well he probably wasn't that small, but compared to Sir Percy he was. In her head Teresia fumed, joder!! Just as she'd got the Baronet talking! But she couldn't very well refuse the offer in front of Sir Percy when she'd expressed the desire so strongly, so she smiled "Delighted Monsieur." Turning to Blakeney she said sweetly "Hold that last thought, milord!"

He raised a brow as his friend came over and took the lady away. He had been right in the middle of a game and the subject that was seemingly admiring him was now taken away. Blakeney was not sure why, but this bothered him. She did mention that he wished to interpret as her wanting to still speak with him. Odd's life! One minute he is disturbed by her presence, and then pride takes over when that woman was removed.

Teresia's dancing partner turned out to be a Vicomte from some obscure region east of Paris. She picked her way through the delicate steps of the minuet. A nod left, curtsy right and, all the time, her heart danced flamenco on her rib-cage. With every spin a thousand butterflies pirroetted inside her stomach. Throughout the dance she kept one eye on Sir Percy, hoping to rejoin him once it finished; but as she arose from the final deep curtsy, her arm was taken by the Vicomte and she was led outside onto a small balcony.

Still miffed over the attention he was receiving to have been taken away, he watched after the Vicomte and the Spanish lady. He blinked back his surprise however when he brought the drink to his lips, and caught her eye seeking him out. At least, he thought it was him.

The fresh air did her good. It cleared her senses and helped her focus on turning this situation to her advantage. "You should know better than to expect Sir Percy to dance, senora" said the Vicomte.

"You know him well?" Teresia hope the question didn't sound too false.

"We have a mutual friend in our charming host."

Teresia nearly choked. St. Cyr? Charming?? The Vicomte seemed happy to discuss Blakeney at length. He had a friend's tactfulness. The Vicomte claimed that Blakeney had superb taste: Chauvelin had used the word dandy. There were, said the Vicomte dolefully, some unfortunate gaps in the man's education: Chauvelin had called him an idiot! Blakeney loved to gamble, she was informed, a true English sportsman. Well, Teresia had seen no proof of that, but the night was still young and the serious gaming wouldn't begin until after supper. As she listened, it struck her that the Vicomte had told her little that she didn't know already or which, for that matter, was not blatantly obvious to anyone who met the baronet. Teresia found that strange. Scientists call it 'instinct', to a detective it is 'a hunch', but senora Cabarrus preferred the term 'intuition'. Intuitively she wondered whether there was actually more to this man than met the eye? Then she shook her head to clear the thought. She didn't know what had caused it. Perhaps she wanted to believe that Sir Percy was not what he appeared because she needed something to explain away her sudden infatuation with him.

The dinner gong sounded and the Vicomte once more claimed her arm. It began to look as though she would not be free to speak to Blakeney until after the meal. However, as she found her place, she also found the Baronet next to her. Was it coincidence? Surely not. Chauvelin was good, she thought, very good. He must have an informant on the Marquis' staff. Someone high enough up to arrange the seating. She glanced around, but the servants' faces were set in stone. A dread crept over her, if Chauvelin had one spy here then why not several? Were they even now watching her and her progress with Blakeney? She greeted him jovially "It seems we're destined to be together tonight!" she pushed this double-entendre as far as she dared.

Hearing the call for the meal to begin, Blakeney placed his empty cup on the nearest table and covered his mouth with a languid yawn. As always, he held himself back, observing the others in the room as they chatted amongst themselves in idle conversation and allowed themselves to be herded like cattle towards the dinning hall.

Tonight he was taking particular interest in watching those directly around the Marquis. There were true friends here tonight, but just as equally, there were those that would be glad to over hear some tidbit of information to doom the aristo. That is what France had become in the past year. Everyone fearing for their very lives.

He couldn't help but think to a few days past when Marguerite scolded him out of the same horror driven fear. What would she say, if she knew he was here to play watchdog over an aristo. Would she pity St. Cyr and think Blakeney a good man? Thinking over her comments about him and his English wealth, he guess that yes, Marguerite would. Too bad the time line was crunching down at a quick pace. Perhaps he could have included her in the knowledge so she would worry less for him. "Then again," the Baronet told himself, "In actuality, it would only make her worry more."

He took his seat and a little bit of surprise crossed his features. He was supposed to be seated up towards St. Cyr himself, so he could listen to the surrounding conversations and be closer to those that might stare or wish to do harm. Instead, he was in the middle, suddenly near this Latin woman again. He was non the happy guest and his scowl betrayed him.

They took their seats. She noticed he still wore his gloves, though it was anything but cold in the room. Surely he would remove them before dining.

Nodding at her flirtation comment, it occurred to him that she might have used her charm and female trapping instincts to con some poor servant into having his seat near hers. Again, part of the Baronet was irritated, while another part was relieved. Terrible is a man who wants to feel the need to be desired. Blakeney, by reputation, was an outward flirtation man. However, as society was thought to believe, none truly captured his heart.

Her heart sank when he merely nodded to her. Damn that Vicomte for taking her away from this fascinating man! Now she would have to start all over again. At least, she reasoned, the meal would give her plenty of time during which Sir Percy could not walk away.

Teresia eyed her place mat nervously. As the one-time Comtesse de Fontenay, normal silver service held no qualms for her; but she had never seen so much cutlery and flatware as lay before her at that moment. Knives, forks and spoons of all sizes were clustered together like an Armada in Cadiz harbour. Work from the outside in, she chanted to herself, the outside in. She glanced Sir Percy to see what he used. If all else failed she could follow his lead.

So far, she didn't annoy him with trivial talk of dancing and the like. Blakeney was rather fond of not having his ears talked to death on foolish topics such as grass, things of love, stars and the like. His ego was restored by his own believe that she had arranged for this seating. The irritated part of him died down after a while and he just sat there basking in his own imposed flattery.

Glancing quietly about, he could bring his gloved hand up and yawn, turning his head away from the lady beside him. It was his way of taking in the actions of all around. Observation being a favorite hobby, if not trained profession, of the true Blakeney inside.

He picked up a fork. It was not the one which Teresia would have chosen and that sapped her confidence still further. She would have to watch carefully if she were not to make a fool of herself in front of him. Soon her gaze began to wander away from the fork and up Sir Percy's arm towards his torso. She thought of the members of the new regime, many of whom took pride in taking no pride in their appearance. She thought of her vain ex-husband, who had submitted himself to the daily ritual of being forcibly inserted into a corset. It was, she reflected, a welcome change to be near someone, who took care of himself and could wear with ease the most unforgiving styles Dame Fashion chose to throw at society. Dreamily she began to mirror his every movement, as the sentient part of her brain gave itself over entirely to trying to visualize Sir Percy without his fancy jacket and embroidered waistcoat.

It did not take him long, and soon, he noticed it. He would pick up his three tined fork, so did she. He would reach forth and dip his napkin in the small finger washing bowl, so did she. It was actually this finger washing bowl that gave her away. He "was setting a fashion" of course by not removing his gloves. The small finger bowl, normally used for of course the finger, could not be used by the Baronet normally when he refused to take off his gloves. To still appear on top of all of society, he had used his napkin. That, and that alone is what gave her away.

Had Blakeney known the truth, he would not have been so proud of himself, thinking himself to be clever. Instead he would have been alarmed. Not even the craftiest of foxes would know every trick, so thinking himself the wiser, he leaned over to her and pointed at her spoons.

Quietly and discretely he offered, "The smaller of the two are for the dessert, whilst the larger is for the soup. Your three forks are for the salad, dinner and dessert in that order from outward in. And that finger bowl? As a lady, you should try using your fingers instead."

He leaned back and nodded to someone calling his attention from across the table. His lazy blues glanced over at the Marquis to see where he was in conversation with whom, and then England's greatest fool gave out that stupid and obnoxious laugh. No one had told a joke.

His words jerked her out of her revery and back to reality. She hadn't realized what she was doing. Now he was laughing. At her? She could find no other reason. Thank God he couldn't read her mind but then, the crimson colour of her cheeks betrayed her as effectively as any form of telepathy. Dios mio, thought Teresia, that's the second time in as many hours that this man has made me blush like a school girl.

Listening to the others around him and their self-importance proclaimed conversation, Blakeney sat there and wondered what was going on over at the far end with the Marquis. He wasn't really interested in what was going on on this end of the table. He did not wish to hear about one more attempt to scold a servant or how lazy their spawn had become. 'The child reflects the Parent.' he had bloody well heard that demmed phrase all his life. He needed to be on the end with St. Cyr so Sir Percy could flaunt about and test the men around the Marquis.

"My goodness." Sir Percy leaned back into the large comfy seat and shook his head. "If I have to hear one more word about how this lousy government is ruining livestock I may have to cut my own head off." He closed his eyes, but only brief. Blakeney purposefully struck out with the most off the wall conversation he could think of to get a reaction. Looking simply fatigued as if he had done labor in the field, the lazy Baronet plopped his arms at his sides and gave out a huge sigh.

Teresia's head snapped round like lightening, her humiliation dispelled by this sudden outburst, and she started to laugh. It was a merry laugh, genuine and unforced. There she was feeling like a fish out of water and hoping no one could read her mind, when low and behold this outrageous Englishman voices for the entire room her exact opinion of it's absurd occupants! Did he really feel that way? She imagined what a picture Chauvelin's face would be when his spies reported THAT to him.

Once again senora Cabarrus began to wonder whether there was more to Sir Percy than met the eye; but a single glance at him, as he lolled, sighing in his chair, convinced her that her intuition was wrong. Wrong her intuition may have been, but go away it would not. She pushed the nagging thought roughly aside. Her laughter died down, but the boost to her spirits remained. She had a job to do and it was about time she got back to it. Leaning on her chair-back so that her face was level with his, she whispered "Don't decapitate yourself, Sir Percy. Rather decapitate them!"

Hearing her laugh, Sir Percy's face lazily turned in her direction and smiled. "Quite say! I thought it was rather humerous myself!" He watched a lot of the others flinch around him. Some rolled their eyes. Others shook their heads. Some near chocked on their meal , while others did a combination of two or all. Sir Percy never once lost his touch.

Hearing the Spaniard’s very odd comment, the smile fell and a dead seriousness gave way. "Decapitate the livestock?! Good Heavens! What would we all eat?" He brought a hand up to his eyes and shook his head as if he were in pain. No sooner had he done this, Sir Percy uncovered his face and pounded his fist against the table. "By jov! Not a bad idea after all." He turned his head back to the woman at his side. "After all, if they are dead, we can still eat them. Jolly good!"

She laughed again. She couldn't help it. Every time he misinterpreted her meaning, and every time the response was so amusing. For the first time that evening, Teresia was actually beginning to relax and enjoy herself. "Si, si," she giggled "Peasant-under-glass!", hoping that her play on words made sense in English.

She noticed the way Sir Percy kept glancing towards St. Cyr at the head of the table. They were friends, she knew, and it worried her. She remembered Andre-Louis' warning about staying clear of the Marquis after tonight. Something was going to happen. Something awful... soon. She suddenly wanted to warn Sir Percy. The thought of him, unable to speak French, surrounded by hoards of unruly soldiers, unable to speak English, was more than she could bear. She wanted to tell him to keep his distance from St. Cyr; but she dared not. Not here, not now, not where anyone - especially the servants - might overhear. So she kept joking, and hoped for a better opportunity later.

The 'peasant-under-glass' comment made absolutely no sense to Blakeney. If it made no sense to him, he doubted any of the straight laced French would get it either. Sir Percy's mouth opened wide and he slapped his knee, giving out a louder obnoxious laugh that before.

"Under Glass. That is so demmed clever." He turned to the man directly sitting next to him. A man he didn't like anyway, so it worked out perfectly. "Isn't that demmed clever. Under glass, because if you had a glass, and put something under it, why, how captivating!"

He chortled a few more times and shook his head. Sir Percy's reputation preceded him everywhere he went and Blakeney was sure to never disappoint.

She smiled, trying to catch Sir Percy's eye as he turned back from talking to the gent on his right. He obviously hadn't understood the joke, but that didn't matter because he found it amusing anyway. That was good, Teresia told herself, small steps are always the surest. The next course arrived and, ironically, it WAS pheasant... and under-glass (glace) as well! She thought to take advantage of the little hint he'd given her earlier. "Well now, Sir Percy," she asked in true coquette fashion, "which knife should I be using this time? Or ought I to give up on etiquette and use my fingers instead?"

The lazy blues widened at the very thought. "Heavens no!" He did not make the connection of her joke, not even when the food arrived. His mind more concerned on the host of the ball rather than some idle woman's foolishness matching his own. Still, Sir Percy must go on.

Pointing to the largest knife, Sir Percy laughed and shook his head. "If you use your fingers, I most certainly will have to get up and leave this table rather be associated with such an action." He brought his napkin up to his face and covered a rather loud yawn.

Before he could withdraw the hand with which he had pointed to the knife, Teresia reached out and seized it - although she was sure that the intimacy of the gesture was marred by his gloves. "Gracias" she whispered and glanced up into two languid blue eyes, half obscured by a napkin embroidered with St. Cyr’s crest. Senora Cabarrus tried to hold his gaze, searching his face for any sign - however small - that he felt for her the same passions as she felt for him.

The effort however was futile. In fact, he seemed a little preoccupied. Teresia felt a sense of failure and almost of anger at Sir Percy for his indifference. However, her paranoid sixth-sense told her that the charade must continue for the sake of the spies, who she was sure were watching HER every move as well as St. Cyr’s. At least by pretending, she could pass the rest of the evening in Sir Percy's delightful company and keep him well away from his friend, the Marquis. Releasing his hand she asked teasingly, "Such an unusual fashion statement Sir Percy. Do you ever remove your gloves?"

He felt her grab at his hand and for a moment, his sore fingers tensed. He was not sure what to expect, his instincts acting upon when someone suddenly grabbed at him it was followed by a crack of a backhand or the brunt end of some object. She did not however, and his raised lids relaxed back into their lazy half closed position.

She was keeping him from doing what he needed to tonight, and it was becoming quickly apparent to Blakeney that unless he dare risk his cover, he best slip fully into Sir Percy and let fate finish out the rest of evening. "Well, you see my dear" he gently took her hand now. Better to be the mover than the move. He touched each one of her fingers gently. "I woke up a few days ago with the most amazing theory. Look at your hand."

He'd taken her hand. Actually taken it of his own free will. Icicles of excitement ran down her spine. Just as she'd begun to give up hope of ever cracking his oh-so-British exterior, he takes her hand!

His lazy blues stared deeply into the other woman's. If he had to be a complete idiot tonight, he was going to do it to it in style. Flirt. Dance. Laugh. The more he did all of these sorts of things, the sooner the evening would be over. The sooner the guests left, hopefully he would be able to catch up with St. Cyr to make final arrangements. It was coming closer to that final day and although he urged St. Cyr to move up the date, the Marquis had things to attend to and with Percy's assurance, he played the odds.

"So my theory is this. Take a hard long good look at your hand. Come now. Go on and do it." He held her hand still and then ran his gloved index finger over each of her fingers in turn. He knew exactly what effect this would have and gladly teased this women. If she wanted to play games, he knew of a few cruel ones to play to amuse no one other than himself.

Compared to his countenance, her own hand held but little appeal. Still, Teresia obeyed. Was he going to read her palm, she wondered? Somehow Sir Percy Blakeney always did or said that which she least expected.

"You see, each of your fingers are small. Slim. Petite if you will allow me to say?" He glanced to the man sitting next to her and nodded discreetly for her to look. His voice lowered. "See that man's hands? Look at those knuckles. Why it looks like a bloody forest of growth on top!" The man did have an abundance of black hair covering each finger. This only helped Blakeney's conjured up case.

"How horrible it is for a beautiful lady such as yourself to gaze your delicate eyes upon such a horrid and hairy display! My theory is that men should wear gloves all the time. The more fashionable one can be, why the better the chances are to catch a lady's eyes and be admired, say whot?" Blakeney smiled. This line of complete and utter hogwash was even amusing to him.

Sir Percy continued, "A woman such as yourself is blessed with beauty. What does a man have? Perhaps a good pair of eyes or a stout chin? Bah! God left us to rely on clothes and accessories to make ourselves try and compare to the female. After all, look at all those silly paintings. By far the female is the one glorified, if I may be so bold, in the buff. Lord help us the day that changes." He released her fingers and leaned back into his chair, staring at her all the while. He was stuck here. He may as well make the most of it.

"Ah, but that is because most painters are men, Sir Percy, and men do not see men in quite the same light as women do." She laughed then added aside, "Well, most of them don't anyway." and looked pointedly across the table. "That young gentleman over there, for example, doesn't seem to be troubled by our friend's hairy knuckles!"

She near got him on that one; a little anyway. Sir Percy always had a trick or two up his lace. "Sink me, men ought to care or take a gander. That is the very thing that I said to myself just the other day. I said, "Self! Sink me", yes it seems a repeat, but bare with me a moment, say what? I say, "Self, Sink me if men don't pay the proper attention to fashion like they should." And I'll be damned if I didn't answer back just as fast with an agreement!" He smiled lazily at her, with that foppy grin.

He still had hold of her hand and Teresia was in no hurry to remove it, even though the time was fast approaching when the ladies would be required to withdraw from the dining hall. "However, I hope men will continue to rely on clothes and accessories. It would be a drab old world if they did not."

"Ha! A drab old world indeed. Try a *very* drab and brown world." He took out his handkerchief and waved it about his face, catching his breath as if he ran a marathon. "What a dreadful thought. I hope I don't faint at that very mere idea!"

"Have a care not to faint on ME, Sir Percy!" she giggled in a voice which suggested that she could wish for nothing better (except perhaps for him to be CONSCIOUS and on top of her).

The ladies around the table began to rise and the servants stirred into life. It was time for her to withdraw, but Teresia couldn't bring herself to leave Sir Percy's side. She waited until she could do so no longer without attracting unwelcome comment, then took back her hand and, standing, professed "Time flies so when one is enjoying oneself, does it not?"

He watched her rise and just released her hand with a silly laugh. "Ah, and parting is such sweet something or other that I forget but it is important, now, isn't it? Good eve my dear." He laughed again and turned around in his seat. He had a way of amusing himself so.

Reluctantly Teresia followed the other women out of the dining hall and into the ballroom. To her left another set of high double doors opened onto a room crammed with gaming tables and in the far corner of the ballroom someone had set rows of chairs around a grand-piano. It was to these seats which, with a few exceptions, the ladies now flocked. Teresia followed and took a seat at the very back. A pretty girl in her early twenties sat down at the piano and began arranging her music, whilst a younger child - obviously a debutant - was pushed forward to sing. The nervous creature commenced warbling a song about the Loire in springtime. It wasn't so much that she was out of key, but more that she couldn't decide which key to sing in at all! The pianist was stoically playing the tune in A-flat, which seemed to Teresia to be the only key the poor child had yet to try. Turning away from the 'entertainment', Teresia's eye was caught by the elderly woman sitting next to her.

"Madame de Fontenay? It is Madame de Fontenay, is it not?" Teresia nodded ascent and the woman seemed relieved, "I thought so. I was at your wedding, though I don't suppose you remember me." Mierda! This was all she needed. She did not recognize this lady; but it seemed impolite to admit it.

"But of course. I'm only sorry I could not spend more time getting to know all my guests as I would have liked." she lied desperately. Did the lady know that she was divorced? It wasn't common knowledge amongst the aristocratic set. Luc had been good about that. He hadn't slandered her, although she probably deserved it. The pair had split through mutual consent and she still lived in their old apartments in Paris.

"How is Luc? Could he not be here tonight?"

"No. He's in Coblentz with Monsieur." Teresia hoped this was true, for she really didn't have a clue as to her ex-husband's whereabouts. She had to put and end to this amiable Inquisition. "The pianist plays very well, don't you think?"

"My Goddaughter, Angele de St. Cyr." replied the woman with pride. Teresia made an expression of pleasant surprise, which she hoped would be enough to answer this statement without inviting further conversation. The singing stopped and everyone applauded, probably out of sympathy. From the front right some sadist, doubtless the child's mother, cried 'encore!'. Fortunately the young girl declined and relinquished her place to a more experienced performer.

Glancing up at the clock, Teresia wondered how long it would be before the gentlemen emerged from the dining hall. She idled away the time reliving the dialogue between herself and Sir Percy. Heavens but the men were taking their time! What on earth was going on in there?

They had been playing cards, drinking and smoking or sniffing snuff. Blakeney particularly liked the cards and snuff. His usual bragging proved him still the victor as he departed with a few of the other men's money. It was the bragging and winning he liked more than the money. As the richest man in England, who really needed it?

With a tall brandy in his hand, Blakeney followed the rest of the men when they rejoined the party in the main ballroom. His mind was on Maeve, wondering if he was to leave and escape away now if he could find her. The clock was late and she would either be with friends at some random eatery or home fast asleep. His lazy blue eyes gazed about, looking to see who looked at St. Cyr and interacted with him. Sipping the brandy, the Baronet sat in a chair off to the side, and began to engage a few French aristocrats he knew in the fine art of leather buying. It would appear, not a single one of them new the importance of a good and sturdy boot.

She watched the gentlemen enter the ballroom with a feeling of immense relief mixed with adrenalin pumping anticipation. She couldn't see Sir Percy but she was hearing all about him, mainly from those who had lost to him at cards. They called him 'lucky' in order to sooth their bruised egos, but Teresia had herself played such games and knew that skill was by far more important than chance.

Finally the commotion began to subside, as partners were reunited and settled into little groups around the room, and Teresia spied the object of her search. He was chatting to a group of men who, by the looks on their faces, did not quite understand him. At least, she thought thanking heaven for small mercies, he isn't with St. Cyr. Once more her eyes swept the room. Nothing untoward, but Teresia's gut instinct couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. Again she heard Moreau's warning replayed in her head. If only she could speak to Sir Percy alone.

Slowly, Senora Cabarrus drifted towards the English baronet. Why was it always she, who had to make the first move? she reflected with hurt vexation. He had been so forward at the dining table, but now... now it was as though she had never existed! What WAS he going on about? Leather and boots! How the devil was she supposed to slip nonchalantly into a conversation like THAT? Oh well, best to make a feature of her arrival then. Approaching from behind, Teresia rested both hand on the back of Sir Percy's chair and lowered her head until it was level with his. Suerte! she said to herself. Out loud she declared with a grin "I can think of FAR more interesting things to do with LEATHER, Sir Percy!". It was a conversation stopper, if ever there was one.

Just as he was getting into the good part of why you should find a tailor that weathers the leather before he sews, a face appeared next to him and blurted out something far more obnoxious that he could dare come up with. All five men sitting in their chairs stopped their part of the discussion and turned their heads to look at the intruder. Some strange female with an accent.

Naturally, it was Sir Percy, who headed up this insane conversation anyway, that spoke first. "Pray tell what dreadful little thing would that be? I'm sure we are all ears." This was at least the second time this evening that the Spaniard woman seeked him out. Third if you considered how she bribed some poor kitchen servant in changing his seat around.

Not wanting to really continue foolish conversations with her, Blakeney switched to putting her on the spot. People were always fun and knowing how to direct them came in handy. With a lazy smile Sir Percy waited for her to explain, along with the other four men.

She felt riled at this remark. Although she had been expecting such a reply, she didn't like the tone with which he said it. So that was how it was going to be, was it? Playing games. Each trying to out-do the other. Very well, Teresia picked up the metaphorical gauntlet and, without breaking her verbal stride, said "Ah, there are times, Sir Percy, when a private demonstration is worth a thousand words!".

She winked at the four horrified others to let them know that she was only teasing. Teresia was still behind the Englishman and close to him, oh so close, this proximity was intoxicating! She had barely drunk at all that night - She rarely did when she was 'working' - but she nonetheless felt light-headed. With immense difficulty she kept herself focused. She had to speak to him alone. Much as he had rebuffed her, she still wanted to warn him about St. Cyr, but he wasn't making things easy.

With a playful Sir Percy laugh, he giggled, "Mmmm. Indeed." He turned his attention back to the men before him. He had about enough of her and only hoped she would go away.

"Now you see gentlemen, I have had the fortunate luck of finding a tailor just in the outskirts of London. Don't ask me how I found him, mind you. Some secrets are best kept under wraps. I can tell you the man simply is marvelous with a leather sole and stitch." Keeping his back to the girl, he continued talking to the men.

I might as well not be here, she thought as the conversation droned on and Sir Percy kept his back turned away from her, if I left this house right now he wouldn't miss me... he probably wouldn't even notice! This knowledge made her feel positively wretched. Glancing at the clock and realizing that the time was well past midnight, Teresia motioned to one of the servants and requested quietly that her carriage be prepared.

Returning to the group, she interrupted the conversation once again and informed them that she was leaving. "Would you do me the honour of escorting me to my carriage, Sir Percy?" Acutely aware that it should have been HE who asked HER, Teresia felt her colour rise as she spoke. Surely he could not refuse her request. It would be a most grievous breach of etiquette.

Thankful was he upon sitting there and continuing to speak about the fine art of leathering when at last she seemed to leave his side. Blakeney had no interest in trying to court or entertain her. His heart, as each day grew, lay willingly and submissively at the feet of another. Much to his dismay however, her voice returned and appealed to the gentleman in Sir Percy.

The voice of Great Britain’s biggest fool ceased mid-sentence. His gloved hand frozen in the air in a gesture of description. Why did she continue on this way with him? Had he not done enough to rid himself of her? Still, Sir Percy was a gentleman first. Always.

"If you will forgive my sudden departure gentlemen? It appears I have a lady calling." Sir Percy smiled at them as he stood, his eyes speaking of a cockiness that should be expected from being chased after so. Offering Teresia his arm, he led her towards the front doors of the house of St. Cyrs.

Taking his arm, Teresia allowed Sir Percy to lead her out of the ballroom. She wanted to speak, but there was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and her mouth had become suddenly dry.

"The honour is all mine Milady." Sir Percy looked her straight in the eyes and smiled. Blakeney had become far to well at lying over the years.

That smile cut through the protective barricade that she had built around herself during the past few hours. Teresia's heart melted once more and won a decided victory over her better judgment. They were alone at last, for no one else was leaving so early and there were no servants within sight. Despite this Teresia lowered her voice. She had done so much already for this strikingly handsome English peacock. She had overstepped the boundaries of etiquette, of decency even, and now she was about to risk her life for him. And risk it was, for if Chauvelin ever discovered what she was about to say, the life of the ci-devant Comtesse de Fontenay would not be worth a moment's purchase. "You are a gambling man Sir Percy. A sportsman, yes? How would you rate you friend St. Cyr’s chances of keeping his head for more than a few weeks?" There was no hint of flirtation in her manner as she said this and, as the baronet was gazing into her eyes, she prayed fervently that he could see how serious she was.

A chilling coldness filled his blood, hearing her speak to him this way. Blakeney continued to walk, and for a moment, he did not even answer her. Who was she to speak to him like this? Certainly the Marquis mentioned nothing of an alliance in her. If she wasn't an ally, that left her to be only one thing.

Waving his gloved hand in the air, Sir Percy stopped walking and turned to face her. "Everyone knows there isn't a man alive in Great Britain who doesn't enjoy some sort of sport. Mine, it would seem, is the ladies, although I do not find your remark on St. Cyr most amusing." His lazy blues looked right into her. What was she after?

"I wasn't trying to be funny." Did he really not understand her? Vaguely she wondered whether she should drop the conversation, but her conscience forced her onward: in for a penny, in for a pound! "Listen to me. St. Cyr is living on borrowed time. Don't ask me how I know, I've said far too much already." There they stood, trying to read the meaning behind each other's gaze. Teresia thought that this was perhaps the most intense moment she had ever experienced. "The marquis is like a powder keg and when someone lights the fuse, those near to him won't stand a chance!" Did Sir Percy not realize that she was trying to warn him?

Staring at her, he was not sure how to take her comment. All of France had been buzzing about the aristos. Everyone knew each day that more and more heads were being beheaded. Every time he traveled here, Blakeney knew the implications of his actions. Why had she pulled him away?

She could see the question in his eyes as clearly a if he had spoken out loud. He was wondering, why? Why would she warn him alone? Porque te quiero, estupido, te quiero! She wanted to shout the words aloud, but checked herself just in time. After all, he wouldn't understand her.

"It is my understanding that each and every aristo suffers the same chance of fate, say?" He brought his eye glass up to his face and looked at her through one enlarged lazy blue eye. Sir Percy regarded her face. She seemed sincere, but why? "I will take your warning Milady, however, lucky me, I am not French." He smiled, not betraying himself for a second.

"Neither am I, but that doesn't mean we're immune." The pressure of conversing in English was giving her a headache. "Most of the men who made this revolution are lawyers by trade. If they want our heads on the block, they'll find a way to put them there. You're right, you ARE lucky. Luckier than me, for I am stranded here. Even if I wished to return to Spain, I could not. Carlos III is scared of the revolution." She gave a cynical little laugh. Es un rey sin personalidad*, she added to herself. "He has severed ALL links with his French cousin. Take my advice, leave for London as soon as possible... tonight preferably!" She wanted to separate Sir Percy from St. Cyr as quickly as she could. Andre-Louis had given her no indication of when the Marquis would be cornered, but he had intimated that it would be soon. Part of Teresia's sub-conscience wondered what Andre-Louis would think of her, if he knew how she was abusing his trust; but for now all that mattered to la senora Cabarrus was standing before her, surveying her languidly with an eye-glass.

"A most interesting tale. Do tell me, why are you unable to return to your little quaint home country?" He let his eye glass rest against his chest, hanging from a tan cloth that hung around his neck. Inside, the brain of Blakeney was churning. She was warning him. Was it a test? Was it sincere? He realized he might never know.

"There isn't much to tell. As I say, Don Carlos seems to think the revolution will spread like the plague, so he's cut communications between the two countries. No Spanish ships are sailing into French harbours, all the mountain roads are blocked and patrolled, not even the mail can get through. Besides, I don't want to go back to Oviedo." Teresia shivered, both at the thought of what would await her if she ever returned to that small northern town and at the cold. Her ball dress and shawl had not been designed for long, outdoor conversations in the dead of night.

"You seem to know a lot about our host, say? Sink me, if I didn't know any better, I would think you were here to save him. In a day you say?" He tossed it out there. If she made a face, her intentions would be to do the St. Cyr harm. Why the timeline on the warning? He did not know and suddenly became quite interested in what this Spaniard woman had to say.

Que? Save St. Cyr? Nothing could be further from her mind. St. Cyr could go to the devil for all Teresia cared, and take his wife and piano-playing daughter with him! She frowned very slightly. Did she have to spell it out for him? "Save St. Cyr?" Her voice sounded surreal in the still air, so she lowered it to a whisper. "The marquis is... is... Oh, madre de dios, como se dice?... like in your army when soldiers volunteer to go into a breach because, IF they survive, they will be promoted... a forlorn hope!" She finished triumphantly, having dragged the phrase from the deepest recesses of her memory. "He is a forlorn hope. Nothing can save HIM, but there's no reason for YOU to die with him." NOW did he understand? She tried not to think about the implications of her words. That was a bridge she would cross, or not, when the time came. Heavens, but her headache was getting worse.

It was quickly obvious and apparent this female was no alley for her face twisted at the mere idea of what the English Baronet playfully insinuated. She began to quickly speak, slipping back and forth between his native tongue and her own. It was one of the few times Blakeney could not translate for the life of him.

In fact, as she slipped back into English, he tried to decipher her analogy but she lost him somewhere amongst the Spanish. Another language he would have to remind himself to learn in his "spare time". Hardly. The Baronet chuckled at the idea, only to realize she turned the conversation back onto him. If the Baronet had a doubt before, it was made obvious that this female was rather taken with him.

"Perhaps only God himself can make such a decision, like the rest of the French Aristocrats my dear. I suppose one can only hope the humanity of life is preserved somehow. At some point." He made no effort to sound pro- nor anti-Revolution. Sir Percy merely carried on as he always did.

Leading her to the awaiting carriage, he spun on one heel and brought her hand up to his lips with a bow at the waist.

Her heart fluttered at this gesture, even though she knew it was a mere formality of etiquette.

With a small kiss, he released her hand and freed himself from her grip. "I thank you for the rather unusual and stimulating conversation Milady. I will be sure to avoid any explostions, say?" Sir Percy stood fully upright again and nodded his head to her. "Good Eve to you and safe travels."

He handed her into the carriage and she closed the door. But then, acting on impulse, she leant out of the window and caught hold of his shoulder. Now that she was in the carriage, Teresia's face was almost level with that of the baronet. "Remember Sir Percy, I have influence with the powers that be in this city and I can aid, or hinder, anyone I care to." She paused, looking deep into those blue-grey eyes. "One day the Great British lion may have need of the friendship of Teresia Cabarrus." It was both a challenge and an offer. If he were in trouble, she would do all within her power to help; but should he cross her, he would find no harsher foe. Would he accept?

No sooner had his forward momentum begun, did it stop abruptly. This woman must have been taken with him indeed. With a cocky smile, he turned and looked back at Teresia, only inches from her lips. He was still allowed to flirt, no?

She spoke to him again, with that very urgent mannerisms. Blakeney did not doubt the sincerity of her words. It was more than apparent that her involvement with politics was deep, but where did her loyalty lie? The only conclusion he had from this one night was simple: Her loyalty lay within herself.

His face was so tantalizingly close to hers, that for a moment she felt the urge to kiss him and discover once and for all whether he felt anything for her at all. Just as the temptation seemed overwhelming, however, he broke the atmosphere by speaking.

He reached for her hand again, taking it off his arm and smiled charmingly at her. "I do not doubt your sincerity Milady. I will keep your offer in mind and heed your words." He gave her hand a kiss, then released and took a step back.

The flirtatious smile on Sir Percy's face did not lingered for a moment and remained true, despite the questions he held and smartly kept to himself.

The night was over. Both knew where they stood and there was nothing left to say. Without taking her eyes off Sir Percy, Teresia switched to French and called "Drive on!" up to the coachman.

The coach began to trundle down the gravel drive and Teresia lay back on the plush leather upholstery. Her head ached terribly and the emotional roller coaster which she had been riding all night had left her mentally and physically drained. Soon the motion of the coach lulled her to sleep, but it was not a restful sleep. Into her dreams stepped a vision over 6 feet tall, with blonde hair and lazy blue eyes. The vision of a man who had resisted her charms and wounded her Spanish pride; but for whom she had nonetheless risked her life once already and would do so again, should the necessity occur.

When the coachman woke her with the news that she was home, Teresia climbed stiffly out of the carriage, paid the man and made her way wearily to her rooms. The clock on the side chimed three o'clock, as she finally slipped between the soft sheets of her bed. Somewhere in the depths of her mind, Teresia's sixth sense prophesied that she had not seen the last of Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart.

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