Thread: Au-delà du Temps: Beyond Time (LeatrixSage x SacrlettRose)

If there was one thing the French hated more than their own nobility, it was British Nobility and in 1814 it was dangerous to be English anywhere that wasn't Britain. But dangerous was exactly what members of the Hades Club specialised in. Of course, most believed the members of the elusive Hades Club to be licentious gentleman with more money than sense and to be those of a depraved nature. If only they knew the truth . . . However, it was with good reason that the clubs true nature was kept deeply under wraps. The sensitivity of the situations they dealt with . . . well, suffice it to say it was for the public's safety. Whenever there was some upheaval in the world, there were usually two wars being waged - One, the one you read about in the newspapers and in pamphlets and two, the one in secret that delved deeper to the root of the problem and eliminating it at it's core. This, however, was not some new found institution. No, the Hades Club that stood in Mayfair in London today had existed since the times of the crusades. The same noble families sworn to protect King and country then still did so now. You, were simply never to know their sacrifice. It was with this grave burden of responsibility that the Marquess of Wessex, Roarke Maximilian Roachester found himself in the mist of this pit of snakes - a grand ball at Joachim Murat Napoleon's own brother-in-laws house. It was with great difficulty and a time consuming task it had been to integrate himself into this new echelon of French society. However, there was still no reason he should find himself in the secret room behind Murat's study. Except, Wessex happen to know this was exactly where he could find the little French tyrants plan of attack. And he knew there was one. Though Europe was at a grudging peace now, the Hades Club had solid intel that strongly suggest that Bonaparte was moving his chess pieces. Hell! There was talk of the fiend crowning himself Emperor! The strings to a quadrille carried on the air and flowed through panels of the cases that disguised this room from the ostentatious study. In comparison, this room was dark, lit by four candles that barely brightened the shadows. A bookcase lined the far wall, not a window in sight and a large rosewood desk sprawled with parchment was tucked neatly at the back, behind which the Hades Club member stood. A tight frown plaiting his brow above his sharp nose and day old stubble. The Marquess looked completely out of place in the dingy room, dressed in a royal blue tailcoat of the latest fashion. He very much doubted his disappearance had been noted below. They did not, after all, call him a libertine or a rake for no reason. His reputation as a philander had indeed proceeded him and apparently the women of the new French court were impartial to an exiled English noble. Then there was always the fact that he did prefer other men's wives to having one of his own. The precarious life of a spy of the Crown hardly promoted a marital state, such as having to explain to a spouse why he had to traipse across Europe without her and why he couldn't specify a time when and IF he'd be back, if he'd even come back at all for that matter. The possibility of death on a mission was a certainty. The only thing that was up for debate was the when. Of course, he also had a duty by his title to marry and produce an heir but Roarke felt no such need - though his sister strongly disagreed - when he had a perfectly good cousin just waiting for him to die to take his title and all the entailment and inheritance that happened to come with it. However, that was another matter altogether. For now, Wessex had to engineer away to remove these documents without being noticed. Not an easy task in the least. As an Englishman - so called exile or not - he would naturally be a prime suspect and that too, he'd have to ride out. Fortunately, he played the part of a rather ignorant and ignoble noble to perfection. As Roarke considered the possibilities, he thought of every single external factor that could hinder his removal of these documents from the servants, to the party goers and witnesses who could place him in certain parts of the property and specific times. Every possibility came with a risk. His life was the least of his worries. No, he had to get these documentations back to England safely. They contained too much valuable information. The Marquess of Wessex rubbed his forehead in concentration when an unanticipated crashing noise filled the room as if someone had dropped a small sack of potatoes. It was from his training and instinct that he swept towards the noise, ready for action. His hand fisting up and pulled back slightly when abruptly he stopped in his tracks. Keen sea blue eyes fell upon the ruffle of red silk and the little sound of complaint. tes-vous bien madame? Roarke's fist unclenched and slender fingers moved forward offering a helping hand as the gentleman came to the forefront with a lady in the room. His dark features narrowing on the small pale form as he wondered how on earth she had got in here when he had heard no bookcase sliding to admit her or any light that may come with such an action. His hackles were instantly up as he suspected something not quite right about this whole affair. Instead of waiting for her hand, he wrapped his cool fingers around her slender upper arm and yanked her up against him in one swift motion. Gazing sharply down into the pretty face that met his. He saw no sign of jewels at her neck or on her ears or wrist or fingers. Though her gown was certainly fine and denoted wealth but there was just . . . something about her. Priez, comment tes-vous entr ici madame? Je ne prends pas bien d'tre espionn. His voice silky smooth in it's deadliness. Were the French onto him?! Wessex wondered to himself, his mind racing back to see where in the last year and a half he could have set a foot wrong. Who was watching him?! How long had they been watching him?! Was the whole operation in jeopardy because of some silly, stupid mistake?! It couldn't be . . . Roarke mused darkly. He was far too thorough, he had not left any trace. No blood. No bodies. No witnesses . . . Then who in damn hell was she?! Je m'adresse vous madame! Parler! The wicked Marquess demanded. Last edited Apr 21, 2020