THE WOMAN BEHIND THE SCARLET MASK
Marguerite St. Just married a man who vanished at every ball.
She knew him as Percy Blakeney: charming, careless, and rich enough to make revolution look like a hobby.
She knew the other name from the newspapers.
THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL.
At midnight, Marguerite found a red flower pinned to her pillow with a knife.
Under it was a note: YOUR HUSBAND WILL DIE FOR YOU BEFORE DAWN.
She carried the flower to the hidden library.
Percy stood at the window in a scarlet mask, a pistol at his hip, and blood on his white cuff.
“Take off the mask,” Marguerite said.
“Darling, you married my face.”
“I married the man who made jokes while I was grieving.”
He turned. “That man is useful.”
“Is he real?”
“Only when you look away.”
A bell rang in the street.
Percy crossed the room and took Marguerite’s hand. Beneath his glove, his fingers trembled.
“Come with me.”
“To rescue another stranger?”
“To rescue the man you married.”
The hidden library door opened. Beyond it waited a carriage with no horses and a city under siege by red moonlight.
Marguerite saw prisoners being led toward the guillotine. One of them looked like Percy.
She grabbed his arm. “Which one is my husband?”
“The one you trust.”
“I don’t.”
His smile vanished.
“Then ask me to stay.”
Marguerite stepped close. “Stay.”
The mask cracked.
Percy kissed her with all the tenderness he had hidden beneath the jokes.
The carriage doors slammed.
A voice from the street cried, “The Scarlet Pimpernel has a wife.”
Percy drew his pistol.
Marguerite looked at the blood on his cuff.
It was not his.
The prisoner in the carriage removed his hood.
He had Percy’s face, but he wore the scarlet mask.
