Sir Percy Blakeney

Blakeney tried to write her once a week. He knew that she would forgive the poor quality of some of the letters, and their brevity, and their relative aloofness, though he could hardly forgive himself for the pitiful attempt at correspondence. She would know he was alive, but not much else. The guilt he felt for worrying her plagued him, but his need to help the wretched people of this nation-gone-mad was so much stronger than that guilt. And Lady Blakeney understood that - the poor, poor woman.

He hadn't the time to write and tell her that he intended on returning home. One adventure had quickly seeped into another, and by the time he set sail for Dover he was only a day behind the last letter he'd written from Paris. It meant that his arrival in Richmond had become a true surprise, and as he approached the front entrance to the grand manor, dismounting from his horse and holding his reigns while he drank in the sight of his beloved home, he raised his head and cast a brief, longing glance towards her window.