He harrumphed. “That I could never do.” Then he turned a deep shade of red. “I mean, you are lovely, Lady Cavendish, dear Rupert’s marchioness.”

Simon opened the door.

“Wait.” She hated to stall their departure, but they must know the purpose of their hurried voyage.

She paused, eyeing them. “We are going after Comte Matteo Durand.”

Lord Simon dropped his quizzing glass and stepped back inside the study. “Lady Cavendish, forgive me, but you cannot be serious. He is practically a revolutionary! Childhood friends with Éléonore Duplay.” He waited for her reaction. Seeing none, he added, “Robespierre’s mistress.”

“I know who she is, Simon,” Scarlet continued. “But, I assure you, Comte Durand is most definitely not a Jacobin or anything of the like. He has become dissatisfied with the violent turn of the Revolution. He cannot help the misfortune of a childhood acquaintance.”

“A possible lover.” Simon’s eyebrows furrowed. He opened his mouth to continue, but Scarlet held up her hand.

“I have it on the highest authority that he is loyal to the dauphin, the rightful king of France.” Were he but recognized by his own citizens, she thought.

The injustice of the dear child’s situation weighed on Scarlet, and she longed for the day when he would be free.

Her voice lowered, and she narrowed her eyes. “Comte Durand has, on occasion, also been a loyal aid to the Pimpernel.” She noted their surprised expressions with satisfaction. “Someone has denounced him to Robespierre himself, having discovered a supposed hidden lineage. Whether or not it is true no one can say, but he is accused of being a prince legitime.”

“The literal bloodline of a prince? How can that be possible?” Simon frowned.

“It matters not how possible it is. Says Robespierre, ‘Matteo Durand is almost as aristo as the dauphin himself.’” Scarlet shook her head. “And we all know his accusation is enough.” She frowned, frustrated again at the abhorrent timing. “They tried to get word to us while we were still in France, but the messenger arrived too late. The comte himself will discover his new patronage when the Committee of Public Safety shows up at his door ready to haul him off to meet La Guillotine.”

Andrew began pacing. “A friend of the Pimpernel . . . Matteo Durand. I am all amazement.”

Her eyes followed his movement. “I have never met him. But he has been invaluable, yes.”

Lord Courtenay’s eyes widened. “You really are the Pimpernel?”

She ignored him. “His parents died when he was young, and he was raised by a wealthy uncle who has since deceased. A sad childhood. His uncle was said to be senile and the comte left much to himself, an occasional neighbor stepping in at times to set him right—raised mostly by the staff—and now that the uncle has passed, the Pimpernel might well be his only friend. And his only hope for escape.”

Chapter Three