Upon the entrance of the two young women, the game room fell momentarily silent. But that lasted only a few seconds before the general murmur of conversation resumed; it was, however, noticeably quieter, and the language censored.
Smiling sweet, indulgent smiles, the ladies Angelina and Lewellyn nodded a warm greeting to those who were familiar to them as they passed. They made a direct path to the table at which the Prince of Wales, Sir Percy, and the French agent sat, attempting conversation. Lewellyn dropped behind Angelina who stepped delicately up to the Prince. “Your Majesty,” she addressed him reverently with a deep curtsy.
“Miss Angelina Trask, simply charmed!” His Highness acknowledged the pretty little woman as she rose from her gallant gesture. She then turned to Sir Percy and extended her small, porcelain hand. “And a good evening to you as well, Sir Percy,” she added, blushing as he addressed her and kissed the tips of her fingers.
“I’m honored, milady.”
Meanwhile Lewellyn had given her greeting and curtsy to the Prince, and was now watching Angelina blush. The girls exchanged a momentary glance of sympathy and understanding. They weren’t blind, after all, and Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., was very handsome.
After releasing the charmed girl’s hand, Sir Percy bowed again and took Lewellyn's hand. At this time His Highness the Prince of Wales gestured to the diminutive Frenchman who had been standing silently by. “Allow me to introduce the Chairman of Public Safety, Monsieur...” the Prince paused, obviously trying to recollect the man’sname.
“Chaubertin!” Sir Percy announced gaily. Then he appeared a trifle confused, “...or was it Shovelin’? or perhaps--well sink me, I’m not so certain anymore; what is your name, anyway, mon-sewer?” he concluded indecisively. Angelina flinched at the bad French.
The little man appeared slightly agitated at the various mispronunciations of his name, but he quickly recovered an easy manner. “ Chauvelin...” he said blandly, with a pointed look at Blakeney, who seemed either unaware of what that look meant, or he just simply didn’t care. Chauvelin continued, “At your service, mademoiselles.” He bowed deeply to accentuate his cordial words. The young ladies returned the gesture in two flourishes of colored satin and dainty lace.
As if to help clear the air between Chauvelin and Blakeney, the Prince chuckled merrily, “My dear friend Sir Percy, though an excellent man of rhyme, I fear you have the most appalling French I’ve ever heard...even in England.”
The young women giggled, the Prince laughed good-naturedly, and even the stony Frenchman smiled...but Percy Blakeney positively guffawed. His mirthful and inane laugh rang over the highly domed ceiling, causing it to echo and re-echo like the laughing ghosts of past festivities. “I say,” he managed, “why can’t we just call you Chau-Chau, it’s the most I can handle of that God-forsaken language, ha-ha-HA!”
This appeared to grate on Chauvelin’s nerves, though he tried not to show it. He smirked in response and commented, “Yes, I’m sure it is.”
Blakeney obviously didn’t hear the last retort, for he had taken his handkerchief out and was proceeding to giggle into it. “Ah, these demmed French names, who comes up with them?” he inquired light-heartedly.
“Probably French mums,” Angelina murmured absently.
“Ah-ha,” Sir Percy responded with a clipped chuckle, “There are no “mums” in France, m’dear, that’s an English word.”
“French mamans, then,” Lewellyn interjected.
“Well begad! It seems the little woman knows a bit of zee French, eh, Chau-Chau?” Blakeney beamed an inane smile on the whole group.
Chauvelin cleared his throat, but Angelina quickly went up to him, cutting him off before he could speak. “So, Monsieur Chauvelin, is it true that you beat our distinguished Sir Percy at cards not an hour ago?” she queried, trying to prevent further offense to the somewhat peeved agent of the French Republic.
At first he seemed unwilling to let the insult to his name pass unanswered, but after a second glance at Blakeney’s tall, powerful figure, he wisely reverted his attention to the young mademoiselle at his side. He bowed his head humbly, “It was, indeed, a close game, but--” he threw a sarcastic glance at Blakeney, who was speaking in jovial tones to the Prince and Lewellyn while flipping his handkerchief foppishly. Chauvelin continued, “--but in the end I was the victor, oui.”
Angelina smiled a dazzling smile, then inclined her head in a conspiratorial manner toward Chauvelin. “May I confide something in you, Monsieur?”
“Certainly mademoiselle, my lips are sealed.”
“I’m not a pure-blooded Englishwoman.”
Chauvelin raised an eyebrow, urging her to continue.
“My grandfather was French,” Angelina concluded, leaning back to her usual posture.
The French agent gave her a warm smile. “Well, citizeness,” he lowered his voice until only she could hear him, “you do your grandfather’s homeland proud.”
“La! Discussing those icky little frog legs?” Sir Percy called, merrily.
Angelina lowered her head, cocked an eyebrow, and a mischievous half-smile pulled at the corner of her pretty mouth. “Why no, Sir Percy,” she proceeded to sachet over to him so that her right elbow touched his left, “we were discussing the fact that you seem to have been dealt a bad card or two by Fate, while our dear Chauvelin seems to have gotten a bit of what I believe you call 'beginner’s luck'.”
“Ah yes, that little incident,” he paused to step between Angelina and Lewellyn, offering an arm to each. “However, I’m feeling devilish lucky at the moment. Will Mon-sewer join me at a re-match? And will you lovely ladies stay to wish me good luck?” In response both women took Sir Percy’s offered escort to the table, and Chauvelin fell in step behind them. “Come along, Your Majesty,” Blakeney called over his shoulder, “I need another witness.”
With that, all four guests settled down at the playing table. Sir Percy and Chauvelin across from each other, the Prince between them, and the two women on either side of Sir Percy. At this point His Majesty announced, “I do believe the clever little Frenchman will win again,” intending to provoke Blakeney to defend himself, and thus allow him to poke fun at Blakeney all the more when the Frenchman won.
“Fie, my good man,” Sir Percy drawled passively, “Don’t think I’m going to let that little frog-eater get all the glory.”
At this the Prince announced to all in the game room, “Hear ye, hear ye! Sir Percy Blakeney has challenged French agent Chauvelin to a round of cards!” And with those words, a crowd of men and a few bold women crowded up to the playing table. Sir Percy seemed quite unperturbed by this, and asked the Prince to please deal the cards out.
Finding an opportunity to slip away, Angelina and Lewellyn worked their way out of the crowd and back to the threshold of the ballroom. Standing at the top of the staircase overlooking the ballroom floor, they immediately noticed the billowing crimson dress and red-gold hair of the stunningly beautiful Marguerite Blakeney. She was dancing with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, a well-known gentleman who had recently shown great interest in one of the French girls saved by the Scarlet Pimpernel, Suzanne deTournay. Lady Blakeney seemed happy, and danced lightly and gracefully. Such was very becoming to one who was known as the“cleverest woman in Europe”.
“It seems so tragic,” Angelina commented to her companion, “that a beautiful woman gifted with such an exquisite mind should be trapped in matrimony with the dullest of fops. She is like a....flame.”
Lewellyn gave a melancholy nod, “Her husband appears as a sea of blue. So lovely and yet...his cold, icy waves seem to threaten to put out the fire of the jewel he has wedded.”
“And so they are,” Angelina assented, “A jewel of fire and a sea of blue.”
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