Chapter Text
“God bless the Scarlet Pimpernel, whoever he may be. Surely he must be an angel in disguise.”
– The Scarlet Pimpernel (film), 1982
It was a lovely affair, if perhaps a bit immodest in its display of wealth. Aziraphale wondered vaguely whether he should feel more disapproval than he actually did – envy and pride were both sins, after all, and at this particular reception, the presence of both was as stifling as the heat – but some small, secret, hedonistic piece of him was luxuriating in its decadence. Well, perhaps his piety could look the other way tonight. After all, one could not help but be inflamed by these glittering chandeliers, these crystal flutes, the absolute flood of wilting yellow roses cascading from the staircase banister. The palette of silks and ribbons and jewels surrounding him was intended to inspire admiration, and so admire them he did. It was deserved. Humans did have such a capacity to create beautiful things.
The only problem was that he was noticeably out of place. There were somewhat less than fifty people gathered in the rooms of Carlton House – a humble gathering, by the standards of the upper echelons of London society – but he felt as though no matter where he chose to stand, he managed to put himself directly in someone else’s way. By the time the fourth woman turned and looked him up and down, as if to discover who dared to disturb the fall of her gown, Aziraphale was as discomfited as she was, and stumbled through an apology. She turned away before he had quite finished.
Irritated, he used his own power to suppress the flush that crept out from below his cravat. It was his own fault, he told himself. To attend something like this was shamelessly self-indulgent. He should leave this company and go home, and he would, very shortly, if he had any sense at all.
Sheer obstinacy, however, held him back. He had come this evening with a goal in mind, and he had not yet achieved it. To come so far, only to give up at the final hour, would likely be even more frustrating than this moment, hot and unsatisfied though he felt.
Locating a small dish of lemon sherbet in one of the less crowded rooms along the enfilade, he set about eating it, hoping it would cool his blood. This was also not a successful endeavor, although for a different reason; he still had the tiny spoon between his lips when a breath huffed laughter against his ear, sending a new warmth thrilling all the way down to his toes.
"Angel, how in the world,” a sleek voice purred in his ear, “do you know the Prince of Wales?”
He knew that voice. He knew that voice better than that of anyone in the world by now. Swallowing his spoonful of ice, Aziraphale turned, preparing himself for the exchange of barbs that must inevitably follow – and then instantly forgot what he was going to say.
The opening shot, as it turned out, had required no words at all.
Crowley, for of course it was he, had set his hip against the long table of refreshments and was twinkling at him over the dark lenses of a lorgnette. Aziraphale could hardly meet his gaze; the yellow of those snakelike eyes, so rarely visible of late, were for once the least remarkable thing about him.
He looked the demon over with frank astonishment. For the first time that he could recall, his infernal counterpart had ditched his typical black attire; tonight, he was resplendent in a shimmering periwinkle suit, its jacket and waistcoat heavily embroidered with gold. Gold likewise tipped his cane and shone from the buckles of a pair of lilac pumps. His snowy wig was disproportionately large, almost extraordinarily effete, in fact, thanks to both the height and volume of its curls. A few of these, Aziraphale saw, had escaped the pompadour and lay demurely, clubbed at the nape of the neck, and dwarfed by the massive bow of a matching satin ribbon.
In short, in the time since they had last seen each other, Crowley had somehow blossomed into the most gilded lily in the hall.
It was vile. The more unfortunate thing was that it also looked extraordinarily good on him.
“I’ve rendered you speechless, I see,” said the demon, arching a sly brow.
At that, Aziraphale managed to get himself back under control, at least a little. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he retorted. “I’ve just never seen you looking so garish.”
“ ‘Garish,’” the other repeated, still smirking, and he lowered his glasses still further and let his eyes openly linger on Aziraphale’s clothing. “What an interesting choice of words.”
The angel was suddenly aware of the shabby state of his cuffs, the visible strain of his waistcoat. In this setting, his companion was simply the brightest diamond on a long strand of gems; his own attire was the example that was out of place. Even so, he crossed his arms defiantly.
“ ‘Ostentatious’ would have been just as suitable,” he snapped. “Or ‘excessive.’ Vanity is a sin, you know.”
“Well, I should hope so,” said Crowley, grinning broadly at him. “Else I’ve wasted an evening of perfectly good wiling, and that would be a shame.” He indicated the entirety of the crowd. “Especially when this is some of my finest work.”
“Oh, please. You can’t take the credit for the extravagance of a private ball,” Aziraphale sniffed. Then he paused, and added, with sudden uncertainty, “can you?”
Instead of answering, his companion set his cane aside, selected a second spoon, and helped himself to a bite of the pale sherbet. Against his will, the angel found himself nearly hypnotized by the vision of wet silver against those red lips, a gleam that he knew would be sour and sweet together –
“I’ll answer your question if you answer mine,” Crowley said, dipping his spoon back into the dish. “Tell me how you know the Prince of Wales.”
Aziraphale recovered in time to make the necessary sidestep. “What makes you think that I know him?”
The demon waved his lorgnette at the crowd. “Because the guest list tonight is from a very specific roster, and I want to know how you got on it. You don’t strike me as the type.”
“You know, for all you know,” Aziraphale said, feeling cross, “His Highness and I might be very intimate friends.”
“Sure,” Crowley said coolly. “Except that the crowd tonight is comprised largely of men under suspicion of being the Scarlet Pimpernel.” Another mouthful of sherbet punctuated this statement. “And their lovely wives,” and at this, he actually licked a thumb, allowing the smallest glimpse of a tongue that was not exactly human – the wanton thing, oh, the promiscuous creature. Aziraphale wondered how much of this was orchestrated for the benefit of their fellow guests. “And I would wager any sum of money that you, angel, are not the gentleman in question.”
It took the angel a moment to realize what had been said. “The Pimpernel?” he breathed, turning fresh eyes on the crowd.
“Mm.”
This was a revelation so massive that Aziraphale hardly knew how to respond. All of England knew the stories by now; every person on the street, it seemed, was whispering how, across the narrow Channel, France had tipped full tilt into revolution in 1789 and then, over the course of the last few years, into something worse. It seemed that the révolution française now thirsted for the blood of every upper-class man, woman, and child, and had not yet drunk its fill of the vintage. Thousands of people, some of them innocent of actual wrongdoing, had already been guillotined – except, of course, for those squirreled away by one brave and noble soul, known only as the Scarlet Pimpernel.
It was admittedly a strange sobriquet; on that much, at least, everyone was in total agreement. Pimpernels were hardy, vulgar plants, bearing only meager five-petaled blossoms, and were regarded in most parts of the country as a weed. There was nothing particularly remarkable about them, in sharp contrast to the person who had chosen the humble flower to be his name.
Remarkable, however, he had proven to be. Aziraphale did not know how any human could have achieved so much, all while keeping his identity a secret. He had already managed to get some hundreds of people out of Paris, and yet, somehow, the odd moniker was still the only thing that anyone knew about him. His name, age, and even eye color appeared to be closely guarded secrets. Even the people he had thus far saved, when pressed, discovered that they could only remember a detail or two about their savior. The entire affair was most uncanny, and, to no one’s surprise, the speculation about him had therefore run rampant, each subsequent tale more outlandish than the last.
He was a handsome vigilante. He was an undefeated swordsman. He was horribly rich. He was endowed with almost supernatural powers. He could appear in a locked cell, seize a young lady, and whisk her away to safety in a blinding flash of light. He could turn bullets into water and iron into tissue. As far as the angel could tell, not one single person seemed to know the truth.
The delightful thing, to Aziraphale’s mind, was the – well, the ineffability that this demonstrated, especially when neither he nor Heaven could take credit for such capers. The Host had been averse to interfering with human political movements, even prior to the disaster of nudging Henry VIII towards that lovely girl from Aragon. (In the aftermath, Aziraphale had only narrowly avoided official censure by offering up, albeit rather sheepishly, the establishment of the Anglican church.)
Today, this aversion was a formal policy stance, and the angel therefore obediently kept his distance. Even in the recent years of the American Revolution, he had not even gone to look, despite tantalizing rumors that tea was somehow involved. (Crowley, infuriatingly, had had no such restrictions and said that it had been fascinating to watch, though he got a bit evasive when asked about his role. He hemmed and hawed and muttered that the colonies’ guerrilla warfare tactics hadn’t necessarily secured the victory against England, and they would have worked it out themselves eventually, and besides the technology was inherently neutral. Aziraphale tended to lose the thread after a while.)
The point was that Heaven’s increasing political abstinence didn’t matter. Humans persevered. In the darkest hours, when they were needed most, individuals such as the Pimpernel could pull off achievements that were genuinely just short of miraculous. Weary as he sometimes was of the bureaucratic red tape, Aziraphale felt rather strongly that God Herself must occasionally intervene firsthand, despite there being nothing official on the books. Some of the events he had witnessed had no other explanation. Why, he could remember –
“Don’t get too hot under the collar,” Crowley said, interrupting this reverie by rapping the angel on the knuckles. He grinned again when Aziraphale, irritated, yanked his hand away. “The Pimpernel likely has better things to do than swan around Carlton House looking posh.”
Curiosity warred against vexation, and won. “Gosh. Do you think he’s really here?”
“I never speculate,” said his companion loftily, and then he winked. “Although, if you really want to know, I have a hunch that he might drop in. To be polite.”
“I would – that is to say, I hope he does.” Aziraphale was already scanning the crowds. “I would very much like to meet him.”
Crowley tsked softly. “Poor bugger’s got his work cut out for him already, without you mucking about trying to unmask him.”
“I have heard the stories, you know.”
“Stories don’t really do it justice, I’m afraid. It’s a bloody mess over there, and I do mean that literally.”
The angel sniffed, still looking at the crowd of people. “As if cutting off heads in the public square was ever going to make anything better.”
“As charming an idea as that is, I don’t believe that the current administration’s goal is to make anything better,” said Crowley, and for once, he sounded unusually grim. “Hell doesn’t usually get involved with philanthropic movements.”
Open-mouthed, Aziraphale turned to stare at him. After a moment, he said, “Wait. Wait just a minute. Are you telling me that the entire situation in France is your demonic work?”
Crowley looked back at him in silence. A muscle twitched briefly in his jaw, but when he finally spoke, his voice was as silky as ever. “No, unfortunately, not after that cock-up in the colonies. Thank you for the inquiry, but they’ve opened up the Continent as an internship opportunity, and as it turns out –” He shrugged. “Well. Hastur and Robespierre took a shine to one another, and that was that.”
“What?”
“Yep.” Crowley tapped the spoon irritably against the table for a moment; he looked as if he’d rather be discussing something else. “Hastur thought he showed promise. Posed as a well-connected Duke, and, oh, my, one that just so happened to own a complete hand-lettered tome of all of the French noble families and their respective bloodlines. He offered it up in exchange for keeping his head.”
“A book?” said Aziraphale with real interest. “Was it a forgery?”
Crowley’s mouth thinned. “Does it matter?”
Chastened, the angel looked away. “No,” he murmured, “I suppose not.”
“Anyway, it sounds like messy work,” his companion went on, abruptly cheerful again, and he spread his arms for a moment, admiring his own elegant garb. “Congratulations to them both, I’m sure, but I far prefer to not get that much blood on my clothes.”
Aziraphale, repulsed by such a display of callousness, tried to match it. “Surely you could just miracle it away.”
He could tell that he had caught the demon off-guard; he had been reaching for another spoonful of sherbet, but the words made him go still, doing his damnedest to conceal his surprise behind his dark glasses. “Ah, but I’d always know it was there,” he said at last. “Underneath.”
“Oh yes, I can see how that would ruin it,” said Aziraphale shortly. “The aesthetic.”
“Stop trying to be a wit, Aziraphale,” Crowley snapped, finally showing a flash of ire. “I don’t particularly want to talk about either clothes or the French Revolution with you, so just tell me. Why were you invited tonight?”
The angel fidgeted, looking down at his own attire. For the second time, he noticed that his cuffs really were rather threadbare. “About that. Well. If you must know – I – I wasn’t.”
Crowley dropped both the spoon and the lorgnette. “You what?” he demanded, his voice unusually high. “So what, you just – thought you’d drop into one of the most exclusive parties in the country without being noticed?”
“Carlton House is reputed to have a spectacular private library,” Aziraphale protested, rather bravely he felt, given that he was now laboring under the burden of a demon’s rising glee. “I thought – if I could slip in during an event and just look at it – I’m living in Soho-square just now, and I’ve been toying with opening a bookshop – will you stop laughing – and of course I know that the collection isn’t for sale, but if the Prince was ever so inclined, I could – ”
The demon had fished out a twisted handkerchief and was holding it against his lips, as if it might stem the tide of his mirth. “I always knew you had it in you,” he said, when he could speak again. “Good for you. Do you know, I might actually call this kind of a housebreaking sinful –”
“Oh, tosh,” said Aziraphale, irritated. “No one will ever even need to know I was here –”
“Mm, yes, unless they want to know where all the sherbet has gone –”
“That’s – but – you’ve eaten some of it too –”
“The Baronet, in the flesh!” said a voice, interrupting him. “Oh, Lord, sir, I did not realize you would be here. What an honor!”
They both turned. A small rotund little man, with a wig very nearly as spectacular as the demon's, bowed deeply to them – or rather, Aziraphale saw to his bafflement, to Crowley, whose lorgnette was miraculously back in place, although the angel could not remember when he had stooped to pick it up.
“Baronet?” he said, blankly, to its lenses.
Crowley inclined his head, a small smile tugging on his lips. “The honor is mine,” he said, and extended a finely gloved hand. “Sir Digby, if I recall.”
“Yes, sir, Sir James Digby,” Digby blurted, shaking it effusively, and then keeping the hand clasped as he examined its cuff. “Oh, God in Heaven, sir, this stitching! These mother-of-pearl buttons! If I may be so bold, my dear, you have really outdone yourself this evening.”
My dear, Aziraphale thought, incredulous, and he could not identify the emotion that coiled within him like a snake.
“Have I?” Crowley was nearly purring. “I’m so glad you think so. I was called to assist the Prince with his toilette, and so, naturally, I took extra care with my own.”
“Oh, sir.” The gentleman set his hand over his heart, and the angel saw with alarm that he was verging on congested. “It’s very noble of you, to continue to inseminate the love of well-tailored clothes among the peerage. I mean, my goodness, there are several men here who credit you with their entire wardrobe.”
Aziraphale was still working through his distaste for the appearance of the word inseminate, which had come too soon on the heels of my dear for his comfort, when Crowley spread his arms and performed a slow pirouette, showing off the cut of his attire. “La, for what other reason would I have come?” he inquired. “Someone has to bear the weight of well-tailored clothes, and I do honestly believe that that is why the Lord created men.”
This was such a sly sideways jab that the angel, feeling vexed, excused himself and left them to the discussion of spangles. He felt, rather than saw, the demon’s shielded eyes follow him as he passed into a different room, but he did not look back. Let the sort of company that Crowley’s foppishness drew be its own reward.
It took him a full minute to recover his composure; and then, with a start, he remembered Crowley’s revelatory statement about the guest list, and at once his attention turned to the faces of the other gentlemen present. Fresh delight coursed through him at the enchanting notion. Why, any one of the men in this very room might be the Scarlet Pimpernel himself!
Without hesitation, he set about trying to read their auras with his Grace. It was slow going, not unlike trying to divine the details of a coin at the bottom of a pool; the art of aura-reading usually only revealed overarching truths about a person, their vices or virtues lit in blazing color. Aziraphale had half-expected someone who was actually the heroic Pimpernel to be limned in gold, instantly visible, if one only bothered to look.
After half an hour, however, he had to admit defeat. No one in attendance appeared, on the surface, to be particularly unusual, except for, of course, the demon in their midst, who, like Aziraphale himself, radiated a color that was not of earthly hue, and therefore was not decipherable. He gave up, and drowned his vexation in a passing tray of champagne flutes.
Thank goodness, it had only been a distraction from his original purpose. As he finished the glass, the opportunity that he had been waiting for since his arrival unfurled as unexpectedly as a wildflower. One of the women began to play the pianoforte and to sing, in a soft sweet alto, drawing the attention of many of the guests. For the first time all evening, they began to congregate in a single room, the better to listen to her. Aziraphale, sharply conscious again of his desire to see the Carlton House library, encouraged them along with a nudge, and, hastily, using a second touch of power to avoid being noticed, he went up the grand central staircase and out of sight.
*
It was a glorious little room. Although it was smaller than the angel had anticipated, it was thick with riches, and he walked about, hands clasped behind his back, luxuriating in the collection. There were a number of political works – Smith, Locke, Rousseau, and Voltaire, to name a few – as well as some well-preserved Milton texts and a sheaf of something, neatly stacked in a box, that, upon inspection, were the curling pages of a Shakespearean folio. Awed, Aziraphale bent over it, breathing in the musty scent, deliberately not thinking of a time nearly two hundred years ago when Crowley had brought him a freshly inked sonnet as if it had been nothing at all.
“Congratulations,” said a voice. “You’ve found the most expensive thing in the library; rather quickly, I might add.”
He turned. In the doorway, a gentleman in a fine gray suit was watching him, with a very strange expression on his face.
“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale said, with interest. “How expensive? And how exactly does that kind of a transaction happen?”
The stranger looked even more startled, and came fully into the room. “Are you – a collector?” he said at last.
“I am,” Aziraphale acknowledged. “But my pieces have all been in my possession for some time, unfortunately. And Shakespeare,” he gestured at the folio, “was always horribly stingy with these, as I recall. I have no idea how one goes about acquiring such things now.”
"New acquisitions are always possible,” said the stranger, sounding more and more bewildered, “if you can find yourself a competent dealer.”
The angel blinked. “It sounds like you have some experience.”
“Quite a lot. In fact, I should think that was obvious.”
“Oh, sir,” Aziraphale enthused, clasping his hands together. “What great good fortune, running into the exact person who could help me most. If you would be willing to give me any pointers in finding a –”
“My good sir, forgive me, but are you going to introduce yourself and explain what you’re doing in my house,” the man in gray said, interrupting him, his voice beginning to rise in his astonishment, “or are we going to stand here and talk about book dealers?”
“Ah, it seems I arrived just in time,” a third voice interjected hastily. “Please allow me, Sire, to introduce the debonair Mr. Fell.”
Aziraphale bit back a sigh; Crowley had appeared out of the blue a second time. The demon’s lithe form was no less breathtaking even in the dim light of the library, he noticed with resignation. He glared, trying to communicate that he was just fine, thank you, but the lorgnette did not turn towards him as the demon went on. “I owe you the most abject of apologies, your Highness. He is, quite simply, here at my request.”
“ ‘Mr. Fell,’” repeated the gentleman – who must, Aziraphale realized with a sudden little pang of mortification, be none other than the Prince of Wales himself. The displeasure of the royal figure was palpable as he turned to face Crowley. “My dear Baronet, I would love to hear a full explanation. As I recall, the invitation this evening was explicitly limited to a few select members of the House of Lords.”
“Ah, well, this is the trusted servant of a particularly prominent Lord, who unfortunately could not attend the ceremonies this evening,” Crowley said, as demure as a virgin bride, even as the angel felt the exertion he made to snuff out the reflexive query of which one? He tried to take some comfort in scowling very sternly at him. “But he does happen to be my particular friend.”
“A servant,” said the Prince, astonished.
“Oh, in name only, my Prince, I assure you,” Crowley said, in a tone of voice that was not dissimilar to groveling. “Those tawdry clothes are part of a ploy to deceive. They conceal a cunning political intellect.”
Aziraphale, unsure whether the final comment was intended to be a jab at him or not, nevertheless thought instantly of the Henry VIII disaster and flushed. The Prince, however, looked as though something had suddenly become clear to him.
“Ah,” he said. “I see.”
They were silent for a moment. The angel did not see at all. For reasons that were a mystery to him, some unnamed tension had eased in the shadowy room, although the Prince was now studying Aziraphale’s face with an interest that he personally felt was unmerited. He cast his eyes to Crowley, who, even behind his dark glasses, looked as though he could not decide whether or not to be relieved.
“Please do accompany me to the entrance hall, angel,” he said to Aziraphale, and the Prince’s gaze sharpened at the use of the term. “I’ve prepared a short recitation for the occasion. I should hate for you to miss it.”
The angel hesitated. He wanted, rather badly, to stay in the library, but it was rapidly becoming clear even to him that he would not be permitted to do so. At his grudging acquiescence, Crowley ushered him away, although he glanced back once and saw the Prince unmoving, standing with his fingertips on the Shakespearean folio, and looking pensive in a way that made Aziraphale suddenly fearful.
*
“You know,” said Crowley conversationally, as they went back down the stairs, “you’re a bit out of practice.”
“Sorry?”
“At keeping a low profile. I seem to recall that you never needed rescuing in Rome, or Babylon –”
“I didn’t need rescuing,” said Aziraphale, who was instantly affronted. “The idea!”
“Oh, yes, I have some nerve,” Crowley agreed. “But I’m not the one who just waltzed into the private library of the Prince of Wales without an alibi.”
“I didn’t need one,” Aziraphale said crossly. “I could have made him forget.”
“You could have.” Crowley set his lorgnette back over his eyes as they descended into the crowd of people, most of whom were clapping politely; the young lady playing the piano on the dais had just finished her final piece. “Or you could rely on the savvy of a clever demon and avoid raising Hell at a rather important party.”
They stood looking at each other for a moment; Crowley seemed to be expecting something, but Aziraphale had no idea what. At last, the demon snorted, and left him flummoxed by the banister, moving into a knot of guests, several of whom turned to greet him with recognition and delight. Really, the angel thought, this palpable celebrity was nearly as offensive as the idea of a rescue.
“A lovely demonstration,” Crowley was saying to the girl, who was being congratulated by her friends. “May I interest you lovely ladies in a small piece of my own composition?”
There was a chorus of affirmation; someone inquired as to what it was.
“Oh, do let me be your standard-bearer, my dear,” Sir Digby called, elated, from the corner of the room. “He told me he might grace us with it. It's an original poem, about that clever swell, the Pimpernel!”
This caused a stir, and, at the insistence of the company, Crowley strolled up onto the dais and bowed. The room sighed as one, which was infuriating in spite of (or perhaps because of) being merited; he did cut an elegant leg, in those fine white stockings, not that Aziraphale would ever deign to notice such a thing.
“Thank you for my introduction, Digby,” he drawled, and then he extended a hand and began to declaim, in the most gratuitous style of oration that the angel could remember since Rome:
They seek him here, they seek him there,
the Frenchies seek him everywhere.
Is he in Heaven or is he in Hell?
That demned elusive Pimpernel.
Revolted, Aziraphale turned away. There had been some laughter and applause at the line about Heaven and Hell, which had been delivered in a particularly vile, bored, insolent voice, but which seemed directed at him personally - although, then again, it probably had been.
He found himself looking at the splendor of the house with fresh eyes. The decadence of it struck him anew, that saturation of sin that he himself had been so willing to overlook earlier in the evening simply because he himself had been enjoying it. Now, however, he saw plainly that this was no place for an angel.
Of course, a demon, Aziraphale thought savagely, could saunter through this kind of a gathering and do exactly as he damned well pleased. He could doll up in frills and ribbons; he could seduce public figures into a lifestyle of indolence and indifference; he could “inseminate” whatever vile habits he chose and be rewarded for it.
More to the point, he could muster the absolute gall to get up in front of a company of men, one of whom was reportedly the precious Pimpernel, and mock him to his face, even as his demonic colleagues helped to orchestrate the French bloodbath across the channel.
Impotent with rage, he eased himself out into the foyer and stood listening to the laughter behind him. Heaven and Hell had pitted their forces against each other for years, but for the first time, he had the strong impression that, by leaving politics alone, the Host had fallen behind in the sacred war. It had allowed the advancement of corrupt systems and of blithe participants, content to turn a blind eye to the wretchedness of the world. He should have recognized this night of extravagance, where no one bothered to talk about suffering except to mock it, for what it was.
It was evil.
The inference was obvious. This was rapidly becoming Hell’s world, if it was not already. Not Heaven’s, and certainly not Aziraphale’s.
He had never despised Crowley more than he did in that moment. Five thousand years of meetings had led to a sort of wary familiarity between them, and a slow but steady tempering of his initial distrust; he had even come to rely, a bit, on that wry perspective, sometimes so dangerously close to his own private thoughts.
Now, however, standing there, in the empty foyer, he could scarcely believe his own foolishness.
“As if trusting a demon could ever lead to anything but grief!”