Mission to Vendôme: Her Majesty's Musketeers, Book 0

by R. A. Steffan

  Mission to Vendôme:

  Her Majesty’s Musketeers, Book 0

  By R. A. Dodson

  Copyright 2020 by OtherLove Publishing, LLC

  Cover branding by Deranged Doctor Design

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 1

  Porthos despised kidnappers. Especially these days, when you could never be sure whether they were just your normal, garden variety villains seeking ransom money, or Isabella of Savoy’s spies out to uncover the network of Queen Anne’s supporters.

  In this particular case, Aramis was of the opinion that their quarry fell under the latter category. Unfortunately, Porthos didn’t have any firm reason to disagree—which made it all the more important that the two of them successfully track down the missing Duc de Vendôme sooner rather than later.

  Vendôme itself was a grim little town. Hard hit by the plague, it seemed to have turned inward in response, presenting a blank and uncaring facade to visitors. Still, it was ideally placed as a meeting point between Le Mans to the east, Orléans to the west, and Athos’ castle near Blois to the south.

  The kidnapped nobleman was newly titled, having returned to his family’s estate near Vendôme after his older brother fell ill of the Curse and died. César, the former duc, had been a thorn in King Louis’ side for years. Freed from his elder sibling’s influence, however, Alexandre de Vendôme had seemed eager enough to curry favor with the deposed ruler’s widow.

  With Louis’ death, it was more important than ever for them to consolidate whatever support they could find for the Queen’s unborn child. So it was that Porthos and Aramis found themselves acting as Her Majesty’s representatives in a meeting between the Comte du Maine from Le Mans, a mysterious man from Orléans who called himself Valois, and—at least until last night—their host Alexandre, Duc de Vendôme.

  Agreements had been signed; promissory notes for goods and currency exchanged. And then, the duc had failed to join them at their scheduled meeting the previous evening. When questioned, the servants at his estate claimed not to have seen him since early that morning.

  The man’s mysterious disappearance threatened to undo everything that had previously been accomplished between the various parties. The Comte du Maine had reacted to his sudden absence with genteel panic, while Valois reacted with anger and stony distrust. Aramis—who, despite protestations to the contrary, thrived on intrigue and excitement like the crops thrive on rain—sharpened instantly from the lassitude that had characterized his behavior during the slow process of negotiation, and now resembled nothing so much as a hunting dog on the scent.

  Porthos, who much preferred his conflict to take place in the open with fists and swords, was merely weary of the whole wretched mess.

  The pair of musketeers were currently sharing a table in a shabby tavern, which occupied the lower floor of a tumble-down building hidden halfway along a twisting street full of unsavory alleys and shadowy corners. They’d managed to talk Valois and the Comte du Maine into giving them a day to investigate before taking any rash action. Still, Porthos could feel the weight of responsibility for the situation pressing down on his broad shoulders, as surely as if de Tréville stood behind him in the room, glaring at the back of Porthos’ neck with his one good eye.

  “The parish priest wasn’t much help, I’m afraid,” Aramis said, looking as cool and collected as ever.

  Porthos couldn’t decide if he envied his friend’s unruffled demeanor, or if he wanted to thump him on the head until he looked as outwardly flustered and frustrated as Porthos felt. He sighed gustily, aware that grace under pressure was one of Aramis’ defining characteristics, and it would be foolish to wish any different.

  “I paid some of the local orphans to poke around and see what they could find, but there’s no reason to think he’s still in the town,” he reported in turn.

  “I suppose we could go back to the estate, and try to gain entrance to his private rooms,” Aramis mused, his eyebrows drawing together. “Go through his papers; see if we can find out who his business associates were. Maybe there’s a clue to be found.”

  “I dunno,” Porthos said. “I suppose there might be, but it could take us hours just to find out who we should be talking to. I think we should visit the whorehouse first.”

  Aramis lifted a sharp eyebrow, caught halfway between confusion and teasing as he replied, “Really, Porthos—are you certain this is the proper time for such pursuits?”

  Porthos scowled and tossed a crust of bread at Aramis’ hat, forcing the other man to shake his head to dislodge it from the brim.

  “Shut up, you. A man tells his prostitute things he’ll never tell his business associates. He was quick enough to recommend his favorite to us when we first arrived. Remember? ‘Thank you for coming to our humble town, gentlemen,’” he mimicked in a lisping tenor. “‘We don’t have much to offer to weary travelers these days, but The Hogshead serves an excellent stew, and Mademoiselle Narcisse has no equal when it comes to helping a man forget his troubles for an hour.’ He’s obviously a regular of hers. Maybe he told her something that would give us a starting point.”

  Aramis graced him with a slow smile. “As ever, you speak only the wisest words, my friend.” He turned to catch the attention of the gray-haired man wiping the table across from them with a dirty rag. “Excuse me, sir. My associate and I find ourselves in need of a diversion. Could you give us directions to the rooms of Mademoiselle Narcisse?”

  THE ROOMS TO WHICH they were directed had the sort of shabby elegance particular to brothels—leather, velvet, and lace worn at the edges; lamps casting warm, flickering yellow light over the center of the room, while leaving the corners in shadow. Mademoiselle Narcisse was a young woman of perhaps five-and-twenty, with a voluptuous body concealing what seemed to Porthos’ eye like an unusual amount of muscle for a woman. Comely enough, except for a noticeable gap between her front teeth when she smiled.

  “Well, well,” she greeted, “what have I done to deserve two such handsome strangers darkening my doorstep on this fine spring day? Come right in, my dears.”

  Aramis swept his hat off, dipping his head in an abbreviated bow before entering. Porthos merely nodded briskly, knowing that despite her charming patter, the woman would appreciate directness and brevity from them, since they hadn’t come to engage her professionally.

  “Thank you, mademoiselle,” Aramis said, once Narcisse had arranged herself an embroidered chaise longue and was looking up at them through dark eyelashes. “Unfortunately, we are here on business of a less than pleasurable nature.”

  Narcisse raised a finely drawn eyebrow. “One man’s pain is another’s pleasure, monsieur. Perhaps you should explain what you mean?”

  Porthos stepped in before Aramis could pick up the thread of banter and run with it. “We’re looking for one of your regular clients. He disappeared sometime yesterday, and we’re concerned that he may be in danger. We’d like to ask you some questions about him. We’re prepared to pay you for your time, and for any information you might have that could help us.”

  He reached into his doublet and withdrew a small pouch, tossing it onto the table next to her. Narcisse picked it up and loosened the drawstring, shaking a number of sparkling gemstones into her left palm and making a noise of interest. The value of gold had been plummeting during the last few years as the supply of labor grew tighter and the cost of goods and services rose higher. For now, though, gems were holding their worth slightly better. It didn’t hurt that these were of above average size and quality, from the Ma
ge Queen’s private collection.

  “That’s for your time,” Porthos clarified. “There’s more if you can help us.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” Narcisse said, raising her eyes to theirs once again, “you certainly have my attention. However, I’m afraid my ability to help you will depend both on the identity of the man and the nature of the information you need about him.”

  “The man in question is Alexandre de Vendôme,” Aramis said. “We fear he has been kidnapped. Has he perhaps spoken to you in the past about enemies, or indicated that he was worried for his safety?”

  Porthos couldn’t help noticing that the woman’s expression grew decidedly unimpressed as soon as the duc’s name was mentioned.

  “Ah, yes,” said Narcisse, “the newly minted Duc de Vendôme. A tiresome little man, although his money is as good as anyone’s these days, I suppose. I’ll tell you what. You two promise to come back and visit me for an hour or two before you leave town, and I’ll tell you everything I can about him. Deal?”

  Aramis met Porthos’ eyes and gave a barely perceptible shrug.

  “You’re not exactly driving a hard bargain there, mademoiselle,” Porthos said. “I believe that’s a deal we can both get behind.”

  “I’m quite pleased to hear it,” Narcisse said, flashing them a quick, predatory little smile. “So... kidnapped, you say? To be honest, Alexandre always struck me as more likely to disappear on his own with a bag full of incriminating papers and pilfered silverware.”

  Porthos perked up at that, aware that Aramis was doing the same.

  “What makes you say that?” Aramis asked.

  She lifted a careless shoulder and let it drop. “I wouldn’t have thought that the man was important enough to bother kidnapping. He may be a duc, but most of the family’s wealth was gone years ago, and around here, he’s considered a bit of a joke. He’s secretive, though. Keeps a private room behind the butcher’s shop that almost no one knows about. He used to meet with me there, rather than risk being seen visiting me here—as though anyone around here cared where he stuck his cock. Frankly, it’s all a lady can do not to be insulted.”

  Porthos and Aramis exchanged another look. The duc had presented himself as being someone with significant resources to commit to the restoration of the monarchy. If he’d lied about that, what else had he lied about?

  “Did he talk to you much about his financial situation, or about politics?” Porthos asked.

  “Only in vague terms,” Narcisse replied. “Like I said, he was secretive. But he was always going on about how he was going to regain his family’s lost money and influence... return to favor with those in power, at which point he would whisk me away from all this to be at his side, always.” This last was delivered with a fluttering of eyelashes and a patently fake look of innocence. “As you can no doubt perceive, I have pinned all my hopes on his words and await these developments with bated breath.”

  Aramis laughed softly, and Porthos couldn’t stop the smile that quirked his own lips.

  “If I didn’t know better, mademoiselle, I would take you for a cynic,” Aramis said. “Tragic, in one so young and beautiful.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” Narcisse said.

  Porthos cleared his throat. “I, for one, would be interested in knowing the location of this private room of his. Sounds like we might find all sorts of interesting things there.”

  “Yes, I believe you just might,” said Narcisse. “From here, you’ll need to follow the Rue de la Chappe north to the alley that takes off to the right, just before you get to the Rue de Bellevue. Follow it around until you find the courtyard at the back of the butcher’s building—you’ll know by the smell—and take the stairs on the opposite side up to the second story. It’s the room with the shutters painted red.”

  “Thank you,” Porthos said, and dropped another small pouch onto the table. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  Indeed, mademoiselle,” said Aramis, “we are indebted to you for your assistance.”

  Narcisse picked up the little drawstring bag and smiled at them, showing teeth. “Oh, it’s my pleasure. Or at least, it will be. Don’t think that these trinkets release you from your promise—I still expect to see you back here before you leave.”

  “Of course,” Aramis said, sketching another bow before they turned to take their leave. “A gentleman’s word is his bond, after all.”

  Chapter 2

  “I don’t like this,” Porthos said as they made their way down the unsavory alley leading to the back of the butcher’s shop. “Not at all. If this pompous ass has been spying for Isabella all this time...”

  “Well, at least we caught on to the ruse fairly quickly,” Aramis replied in a philosophical tone. “And it isn’t as though we’ve told anyone where Ana María is located. Besides, there’s still the possibility that the duc is completely innocent, and has indeed become the victim of a kidnapping.”

  “That’s not much better, from a tactical point of view,” Porthos grumbled, feeling surly and out of sorts about the whole situation.

  “Ana María is in danger every moment of every day,” Aramis said. “As are all of us who have thrown our lots in with hers. It’s frankly amazing that this sort of thing hasn’t happened sooner.”

  The buzz of flies and the cloying odor of offal combined to let then know that they were approaching their destination. Porthos shook his head. “It’s not the danger that bothers me. It’s the thought of it happening on our watch. Being our mistake, you know?”

  Aramis patted him on the shoulder. “Just as well we still have a chance to salvage things, in that case,” he said, and pointed across the damp, dimly lit courtyard at a rickety set of stairs set haphazardly against the back of a building.

  By unspoken accord, they fell silent and kept to the shadows as they skirted around the open space, until they reached the base of the stairs. Aramis led the way onto the steps and Porthos followed him, taking care to tread lightly and not to let his weapons belt creak or jingle. He allowed his eyes to rove around the surrounding buildings, watching for danger as Aramis assessed the rooms ahead. The stairs terminated in a walkway that stretched along the length of the second story, and the window with red shutters was roughly halfway along it. Still moving silently, the pair crept past the first two doors. Aramis positioned himself to peer cautiously through the gap between the painted shutters and into the room, looking for movement within. After a moment, he caught Porthos’ eye and nodded.

  The duc was inside.

  Porthos eased past Aramis on the narrow walkway to examine the lock and hinges on the room’s wooden door. The ironwork was of surprisingly sturdy construction, but the wood itself was cracked and dry where the hardware attached. He indicated with an economical hand gesture that Aramis should stand back and be ready. With a quick prayer that the wood of the door would give way before the wood of the walkway did, Porthos rammed his shoulder against the edge of the portal, and was rewarded with the sound of splintering boards. The lock held and the remaining unbroken boards of the door still barred their way, but a strong kick aimed just under the handle sent the whole thing crashing open with Porthos half-falling into the room behind it.

  He was aware of a cry of surprise from within. An instant later, the duc flailed to his feet from a chair set by a desk in front of the window. Alexandre de Vendôme lunged toward them, wild-eyed. Lamplight flashed against metal in his hand as Porthos regained his balance, barely in time to meet the clumsy charge.

  A line of stinging pain sliced across the outside of his upper arm. He growled in irritation, batting the stiletto out of his opponent’s grip and hurling the smaller man to the floor in a heap. The duc froze at the slide-click sound of a pistol being cocked, and Aramis stepped smoothly to Porthos’ side, sighting down the barrel at his head.

  “That’s quite enough, Monsieur le duc,” Aramis said. “I do believe we need to have a little talk. Porthos, are you hurt badly?”

  Porthos flexed his left ar
m, feeling a slow trickle of blood and the mild burn of a shallow cut rather than the sickening pull of a gaping wound.

  “Nah,” he said, fixing his eyes unblinkingly on the duc and letting his lips part in the slow smile that he had been told on more than one occasion was terrifying to behold. “Nothing to worry about. It’s just a little prick.”

  He could hear the smirk in Aramis’ voice through the thin veneer of false concern as the other man addressed their prisoner. “Oh, dear. I do believe you’ve made Porthos angry.”

  The duc finally found his voice. “What are the two you doing here, accosting me in my private room! How did you even find this place?”

  “We’ve got spies everywhere, don’t we, Aramis?” Porthos said, not allowing his disconcerting smile to slip for an instant. “Why don’t I keep an eye on our friend, here, while you have a poke around. Make sure there are no incriminating documents lying around the place. Or, y’know, pilfered silverware.”

  “What an excellent idea,” Aramis said, ignoring Alexandre’s offended cry of “How dare you!” and offering Porthos his pistol.

  Porthos cracked his knuckles slowly and deliberately. He was well aware of the role he played in such encounters, and in this case he actively relished it.

  “Not necessary,” he said in a gravelly tone, still maintaining his unnerving eye contact with the man at their feet.

  Aramis shrugged and returned the pistol to his belt, before turning away and beginning a thorough search of the room. The desk yielded an unfinished letter instructing the staff at the duc’s estate on their duties during his forthcoming absence, which Aramis read aloud for Porthos’ benefit.

  “So, planning a journey, eh?” Porthos asked, moving a step closer to the duc and looming over him.

  “That’s none of your concern,” the man said, a faint tremor entering his voice.

  “Hmm,” Aramis said noncommittally, and continued his methodical search.