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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 wasapimpernel, notthepimpernel.”
“I’m not sure I follow. If he was notthepimpernel, 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 FAULThis 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.
