“As for this Pimpernel fellow whom everyone seems so concerned about,” Finn continued blithely, “I cannot flaw him for his boldness or idealism, but given all the bloodletting being done across the water, rescuing one or two aristocrats would seem like pissing in the wind, no? Still, I do wish the fellow well and I only hope that the French navy does not learn of Dewhurst’s part in all of this, else they might well try to sink his newly purchased boat. Though, in truth, I doubt that they have any craft that would be capable of catching her.”
“As for that,” said Dewhurst, with a grin, “if the French did sink the Day Dream, it would relieve me of the expense of maintaining her! However, you’re quite right, Percy, there is a certain amount of risk in lending aid to this Scarlet Pimpernel. Yet, any risk I may incur is nothing compared to the risks that he must take. I admit that there might be some risk for me, but what is life without an element of risk? Nothing but mere existence. If you ask me, gentlemen, this Pimpernel fellow is a true sportsman! I can think of nothing quite so game as playing leapfrog with the French and thumbing your nose at Danton, Robespierre, and the entire bunch of them!”
“There is much more than sport involved in this affair, young Dewhurst,” Burke said, stiffly. “We cannot afford to merely thumb our noses at the French. This Revolution of theirs is a plague and the precautions of the most severe quarantine ought to be established against it!”
“Begad, that was well said,” said Finn. “You know, Burke, someone told me tonight that when you rise to speak in Parliament, your fellow members are moved to go out to dinner. I can well see why, since such passionate invective must do a great deal to stimulate the juices! It is fortunate for us, gentlemen, that we’ve already eaten. As it is, such fine speech ought to do great wonders for our digestion.”
There were chuckles at Finn’s remarks, though they were quickly stifled. Burke had gone red in the face, but Finn had a look of such guileless stupidity upon his face that the politician could think of no way to reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Finn could see that Sheridan was biting on his finger in an effort to keep from laughing. Later on, the playwright drew him to one side, in a corner somewhat removed from all the general discussion.
“See here, Blakeney,” Sheridan said, speaking thickly and swaying from side to side, “I have not yet quite decided what to make of you. You seem to be a male Mrs. Malaprop at times, and yet I see a bit of Swift in you, I think. You seem to be laughing up your sleeve.”
Finn affected a look of puzzlement. “I’m not at all sure what you mean, old fellow. Truthfully, I’d never laugh at any guests of mine, though I must admit that your rendition of the dying swan at dinner was a bit amusing. I’m afraid that I don’t get your meaning.”
Sheridan stared at him for a moment. “I think you do Blakeney. Yes, I think you do. I don’t know if you pricked Burke on purpose or if it was just a happy circumstance of all your rambling babble, but you’ve roused my curiosity. Tell me, what is your real feeling concerning the revolt in France and this Scarlet Pimple or whatever his name is?”
“My real feeling?” Finn said, raising his eyebrows. “Begad, my real feeling is that I’m glad to be out of it! The climate in Paris is decidedly unhealthy at this time of year. I’m happy that de Chalis has seen fit to seek a change of weather. Doubtless he will live longer. As for any others who choose to follow his example, I can only wish them bon voyage and hope that they encounter no difficulties in making their travel plans.”
“Indeed,” said Sheridan. “And what of this Pimpernel chap?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what to think of him,” said Finn. “He seems like quite a bold and dashing fellow, destined to be all the rage of London. He’s already won the hearts of Ffoulkes and Dewhurst and, I’ll wager, of most of the women here tonight. What do you think of him, Sheridan?”
“I think he’s a monumental fool who’ll get his head chopped off,” said Sheridan, adding a belch for punctuation. “But I must admit that I admire his pluck.”
“Perhaps you’ll write a play about him,” Finn said.
“Not I,” said Sheridan. “His tale is the stuff of romantic fiction for women to sigh over in their drawing rooms. Besides, he has only just begun his mad career and chances are it will be cut short by the public prosecutor’s blade.”
“That would be a pity,” Finn said.
“Aye, it would. I wouldn’t even have enough material for my first act.”
By midnight, the guests had all departed. Marguerite went up to bed, exhausted. Ffoulkes and Dewhurst were the last to leave, along with old de Chalis, who quietly told Finn that if there was ever anything that he could do for him, he had but to ask. When they had gone, one of the servants came up to Finn and handed him an envelope.
“What’s this?” said Finn.
“One of the guests told me to give this to you after everyone had gone, milord,” the servant said.
Finn tensed. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know, milord. A gentleman.”
“What did he look like?”
The young man shrugged. “He looked like a gentleman, milord.”
Finn frowned. “Never mind. That will do. Go on about your duties.”
He opened up the note. It was short and to the point. It said, “The maze, at one o’clock.” It was unsigned, but Finn knew who it was from.
The house seemed strangely empty now that all the guests had left. As Finn walked back into the reception hall, the heels of his shoes made sharp echoing sounds that filled the spacious room, which only a short while ago resounded with laughter, boisterous conversation, and violin music. It was a lovely way to live, Finn thought. It might be very pleasant to spend the next several years as Sir Percy Blakeney, if it wasn’t for the fact that his lifespan could be drastically curtailed by some error he had yet to make.
There was still some time before one o’clock. Finn quickly went up to his rooms and changed out of his elegant, cream-colored suit, dressing in black riding clothes and boots, the better to blend in with the darkness. Just to be on the safe side he tucked a short dagger into his belt and took along a polished ebony sword cane with a heavy, solid silver head.
It was chilly and a mist had settled on the grounds. His boots made slight crunching sounds upon the gravel path as he walked around to the side of the house, his crackling steps a percussive counterpoint to the chirping of the crickets. He stepped off the path and onto the grass, heading for the elaborately arranged rows of perfectly trimmed hedges, eight feet high and four feet thick. There was no evidence of any other human presence about save for himself.
It occurred to him that the setting was perfectly suited for a trap. In the darkness, with the tall hedges all around him, it would be virtually impossible to see anything. Finn had good night vision, but the visibility was limited as a result of the darkness and the mist. The thought that somewhere nearby would-be a man trained at least as well as he was made him move slowly and cautiously as he entered the maze. Lucas had shown him how the placement of the urns indicated which turn to take. The benches were positioned so that the urns could only be seen from the correct paths, the view of them being otherwise blocked by the benches. Obviously, Mongoose knew this trick as well, else why choose the maze for a meeting place?
Moving with stealth, Finn made his way to the grassy square at the center of the maze. He could make out the ghostly white benches placed around the perimeter of the square, but not much else. He wished he had been issued night glasses, but the fact that he lacked such equipment did not mean that Mongoose would be equally at a disadvantage. Still, there was nothing else to do but sit down upon a bench and wait until Mongoose made his move. Finn waited nervously in the darkness, listening to the chirping of the crickets. At a little after one o’clock, he heard a faint sound of movement close by and then a familiar voice called out, softly, “Delaney?”