Hampshire 1812

The Right Honorable Thomas Daventry, only son of the Viscount Daventry, hadn’t been home in ages. It wasn’t that he didn’t get on with his parents. He did. It was more that he didn’t get on with Hampshire. The rolling fields dotted with puffy white sheep were certainly bucolic, but they were also tedious as hell. At nineteen, what did Thomas want with sheep and fields and an old drafty pile? London with its artists and theaters and clubs was far more exciting than Daventry Hall.

Or was it?

After last night, Thomas wondered if perhaps the old pile and his staid father and mother had unplumbed depths. And if his father was keeping secrets, Thomas wanted to know.

Which was precisely why he’d ridden hell-for-leather the last few hours to reach home.

Just after noon the sun peeked out from behind low-hanging clouds that had threatened rain, and Thomas crested the rise overlooking the stately house. It had been built in the last century by some famous architect or another. Thomas considered the man an architect with little imagination. How difficult was it to design a gray stone rectangular building? Daventry Hall was all symmetry and proportion, right angles and clean lines. Not a column, not a tower, not a turret (whatever that was) to be seen. It was stable and predictable, like his parents.

Seeing the house again, Thomas almost turned right back around. It was foolishness coming here and confronting his parent about the information he’d received last night.

On the other hand, as long as he was here, he might as well have a meal.

Half an hour later, Thomas joined his father in the library. This dark-paneled room with plush couches and heavy draperies had always been his favorite room in the house, and he’d read most of the books it contained. Thomas had done his share of writing as well. He fancied himself a bit of a poet, though he’d yet to sell any of his verse.

Like the library, the viscount looked much as he always had, though his dark hair was mostly gray now, and he wore his spectacles more often than in the past. The viscount removed them now and gave Thomas a long look from behind the polished desk.

“What have you done now?”

Thomas scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t I come for a visit?” He sat in one of the chairs across from the desk and admired the shelves of books.

The viscount tapped his fingers on the desk, while the low fire in the hearth crackled. “Have you gambled away your allowance?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Fallen in love with an actress?”

“You’ll need to increase my allowance if I’m to catch the eye of any actresses.”

“Noted. What is it then? Been challenged to a duel? Lost your credit—”

“None of those. I haven’t done anything except attend a dinner party.”

The viscount steepled his hands. “Go on.”

“I met an interesting gentleman there. A Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. He claims to know you.”

Thomas had been watching his father’s face, else he would not have noticed how all expression was wiped away. The viscount looked perfectly blank.

“Do you know him?” Thomas asked.

“No.” His father’s voice was level and without tone.

“That’s funny. He...well, it’s ludicrous really. I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.” He stood.

“What did this Ffoulkes say?”

Thomas shrugged. “He said to tell you hello and for me to ask you about the real Scarlet Pimpernel.”

The viscount’s fingers, steepled a moment before, now locked together. “The Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“You know, the old story about the Englishman who rescued Frenchies during their revolution. Everyone says Sir Percy Blakeney was the pimpernel, but this Ffoulkes said to ask you about the real pimpernel.”

The viscount rose and crossed to a small table with a crystal decanter. It wasn’t dusty—nothing in the house was dusty—but Thomas had never seen his father drink from its contents before. Now, he poured himself two fingers of the amber liquid and drank it down before pouring another two.

“Are quite you well?” Thomas asked, concern, and not a little excitement, beginning to grow. “Did you know the Scarlet Pimpernel? Was it Sir Percy?”

His father looked at him. “I suppose there’s no point in keeping it hidden any longer.”

Thomas sank back into his chair, his gaze fixed on his father. This was what he had come for, and yet, he couldn’t quite believe his father had a story to tell. Viscount Daventry—Dull Daventry, as everyone called him in Town.

“I did know Ffoulkes,” the viscount said. “It’s habit to deny it, but the truth is I knew him well. I knew Blakeney too. I knew them all—Dewhurst, Hastings, the whole league.” He sipped his drink. “And I suppose you are correct that Sir Percy was part of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“He wasn’t the Scarlet Pimpernel?”

“He was a pimpernel, not the pimpernel.”

“I’m not sure I follow. If he was not the pimpernel, who was?”

His father set his drink on the desk and gave Thomas a hard look.

“Are you saying?” Thomas shook his head. It was not possible. His father could not be the Scarlet Pimpernel. “I-I cannot believe it.”

***

HUGH COULD HARDLY FAULT his son for the look of pure incredulity that crossed his face. It wasn’t every day a child’s parent admitted to being England’s most celebrated hero. Hugh had never wanted acclaim or recognition. That’s why he’d given it to Blakeney, but he couldn’t start there. If he was to tell his son the tale, he should start at the beginning. But what exactly was the beginning?

Even as he thought it, the remembered scent of fresh apples and cut hay and sweet clover seemed to infuse the room. Because, of course, it all began in Versailles, and it all began with her.

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