England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  He called to his assistant and handed him the letter, ordering, “Have one of our new men deliver the communiqué to this shop in Paris,” all the while praying that the missive arrived before the man it described.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Evariste Rousseau closed his eyes and breathed in Paris as he was rowed to a barge anchored every Saturday evening in the center of the Seine. Music drifted to his ears as he walked up the gangplank, using the thin strips of wood for leverage against the force of the swaying ship.

  “Welcome home, Major Rousseau.” The owner of the popular gambling hell bowed. “Minister LeCoeur is expecting you in the green room.”

  Evariste looked through him and toward the short ladder that led to the more entertaining level of the exclusive club. He discreetly swept his black jacket to the side, making his pistols accessible if the need should arise.

  Security upon Neptune’s Paradise was exceptional and quite comforting to the Parisian elite. Yet, it was this isolation, this total control of the surroundings by the club owner that put Evariste on edge. He had learned long ago that places reputed to be safe were often the most dangerous of all.

  Smoke and drink followed freely on the open deck of the hell and he descended the ladder, leaving temptation behind. The hull of the inspired ship had been transformed into ten luxurious rooms, five on either side of the barge.

  The favored green room, he knew from experience, was the second on his left. Evariste knocked and the door was opened by one of the men he had hired to protect Monsieur LeCoeur.

  “Rousseau!” Minister LeCoeur shouted, pleased to see him. Evariste’s lip rose fractionally at one corner. It was pleasant to be needed. “Have a seat.”

  He glanced at the round table at which the five men sat. Cards and snifters of brandy littered the table with an empty wooden chair waiting to be occupied. Evariste glanced at the door and back to the empty chair, eliciting a laugh from his employer.

  “Leave us gentlemen, so that our wayward friend might sit facing the door.” Major Rousseau stepped to the side, his back against the wall, while the four guards filed out, not quite meeting his eye. “And have our host send along his finest selection,” Minister LeCoeur spoke to Captain Turgeon.

  “Oui,” the captain bowed, closing the door and Evariste walked to a corner chair opposite the illustrious Minister of Police.

  “You’re back.” Minister LeCoeur met his eye. “Might I then assume that you have been successful in your commission?”

  Evariste smirked then tossed atop the table a package wrapped in brown paper and secured in an untidy knot with thin, taupe twine.

  The minister smiled fully, reaching for the package as he sat back, crossing his legs. His stripped the twine and the folds of paper fell open. Minister LeCoeur unrolled the package with great expectation, revealing the severed tongue of the English traitor Lord Cunningham.

  But that was not all.

  Evariste waited eagerly as the minister’s brows furrowed and he continued to unroll the bulky package. A second tongue lay lifeless, a grayish brown against the moist brown paper.

  “Who?” His employer asked, meeting his eye.

  Evariste could not contain his smile. “Colonel Lancaster was himself escorting Lord Cunningham to Newgate.”

  Minister LeCoeur glanced at the second tongue in disbelief. “Lancaster? Falcon’s own military advisor?” The minister laughed and Evariste felt the contentment of pride. “Oh, you are good to me Major Rousseau.”

  A knock at the door interrupted his accolade and three whores were ushered into the small room. Evariste glanced at the women with disinterest but was surprised when Minister LeCoeur chose a black haired girl over his typical preference for blonds.

  “What happened to your mistress?” Evariste inquired, comfortable enough to do so.

  “Ah, oui, I forget you have been in London.” Minister LeCoeur smiled like a fiend entering an opium den. “I have met a lady, a ebony haired goddess with who I am becoming increasingly enamored.”

  Evariste did not like it. “What do you know of this woman?”

  “The lady is being investigated,” his employer said, his tone a dismissive set down and Evariste knew the personal affair was to be dropped. “Would you like one of the other whores?”

  “No,” Evariste said, not even bothering to look at the women. “I wish to access Conciergerie.”

  “The prison is still standing, I can assure you.” Evariste said nothing, his mind made. “Visit if you must.” The minister sighed. “I shall meet you tomorrow afternoon to discuss the details of your journey to London.” Major Rousseau rose, bowing before stepping around the large table. “Take those two with you on your way out, will you?” Minister LeCoeur asked, his attention already drifting to the ebony haired whore.

  Evariste ushered the discarded whores out of the green room and then pushed passed them on his way up the ladder and toward the main deck. The row boat was ready, as ordered, to take him the sort distance to the Ile de Cite?

  They approached the dock which led to a staircase closest the prison entrance. Major Rousseau ascended to the street where he was greeted by the stench of the imprisoned citizens of Paris and then by the prison sentry.

  “Name?” Evariste looked up at the man, his eye reflecting his reputation. “Pardon, Major Rousseau,” the man groveled. “I was told that you were away on business.”

  “Do I look ‘away’?” The guard swallowed. “Open the fucking gate.”

  The gate was opened without further comment and Major Rousseau made his way to his prison office. It was located in the basement as he had requested, far away from the annoyance and scrutiny of the bureaucratic custodians of Conciergerie.

  He opened the door to his office and Evariste smiled despite himself. He walked to his desk, sinking into the leather chair and just breathed. Evariste was at ease here, both comfortable and comforted, in charge and in control.

  Major Rousseau glanced at his tidy desk to verify that all was as he had left it then leaned over and pulled out the bottom right hand drawer of his enormous desk. He lifted the heavy wooden case and opened it, inspecting his tools one by one. The metal glinted and Evariste called to his guard.

  “Jean-Luc.”

  “Sir,” the boy opened his office door, entering from the outer hall.

  “You have done an excellent job in cleaning these tools. I commend you.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” the young guard said, trying to hide a smile.

  “Now, bring in tonight’s arrivals.”

  “Right away, Major Rousseau,” the boy spun and ran down the hall, eager to please him further.

  The soldier returned several minutes later with files in hand and four bedraggled young women following behind him. They ranged in age from sixteen to twenty one, all of them charged with paltry theft.

  “Line them up.” Evariste sat in his chair watching carefully as his guard arranged the prisoners shoulder to shoulder. He lifted the files and found the name Evariste had been seeking.

  “Brigit?” He walked toward a small blond with unkempt hair and a dirty chapeau sitting askew atop her head. “You are but sixteen and a thief. Surely, your mother has taught you better than this?”

  The girl was looking at her hands, tears streaming down her face. “My mother is dead, monsieur.”

  The tallest of the women sniggered with contempt, drawing his attention. Evariste sorted the files, estimating her to be the oldest.

  “Angelina?” he asked, walking toward the disdainful woman as she stared straight ahead, refusing to answer him.

  “Oui, Major Rousseau.” His guard interjected. “She is called Angelina.”

  Evariste placed the files on his desk and walked to stand toe to toe with the young woman. “You are a thief?”

  “If your file says so, it must be true.” Defiance sparkled in her grey eyes, causing a swell of excitement in his chest.

  “You must be very good with your hands to be a thief.” They
were the only two in the room, the others disregarded as weak competition. “I am too,” Evariste whispered, leaning forward and caressing her breast.

  The woman slapped him and he became aroused.

  “I’ll take her.”

  His prison paled, realizing her fate as the other prisoners were escorted from the room. Evariste locked the door and removed his jacket, carefully laying it over the back of his leather chair.

  “I’ll scream,” the girl lifted her chin but he could see her fear, respected her for fighting it.

  Evariste moved his tools in the order in which they would be used and smiled, saying, “I know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Nicole entered the small doors of Saint Gervais at four o’clock in the afternoon. She bowed her head, making the sign of the cross as she turned to climbing the ancient steps to the floor above.

  The final steps were the most difficult as her soul longed to be in the presence of God. She emerged into the vaulted chamber and looked up at stained glass windows set aglow like a fine wine by the afternoon sun.

  She was alone in the chapel, and immensely thankful for it, as she had many things to discuss, many burdens to bear. On the whole, Parisians seemed to prefer the majesty of Notre Dame, but it was here, in this intimate chapel, that Nicole found comfort. She knelt in front of the small alter, clutching Falcon’s missive in her right hand.

  It was clever of Nicole’s ‘sister’ to send a missive directly to Monsieur Gaulet’s toy shop, but then Falcon had always been clever. It was easy enough to explain to the elderly shopkeeper that her ‘sister’ had not yet received the location of her new apartment and that she must have taken the direction from the package sent Friday last.

  An appreciative smile and an expensive purchase for her ‘nephew’ had quelled any suspicion the old man might have had about the letter. Nicole had left the shop and read the missive as she strolled along the wide boulevards. However, it was not the wind that had driven her to the sanctuary of Saint Gervais but rather the information contained within the brief communiqué.

  A Frenchman was suspected of single-handedly killing six Englishmen, including the notorious traitor Lord Cunningham. Falcon had given a description of the man, but to little affect as Nicole had no idea who this deadly assassin might be.

  Minister LeCoeur was lethal, to be sure, but he had been with her at the time of the murderers not to mention was far taller than the man described. No, Joseph LeCoeur was not the man for whom Falcon had risked exposing her location, her identity as Scorpion.

  Predictably, the old man had rescinded the fabricated order of assassination, warning her of this unidentified adversary in the process. Yet, as she knelt at the alter of Saint Gervais, Nicole could not think of a solitary reason for abandoning the sanction.

  Both she and Falcon knew what awaited her if she returned to England. The old man had fought for her release two long years ago, and it had been granted by the Foreign Office.

  Conditionally.

  If Nicole Stratton agreed to accept the Foreign Office commission then she was also consenting never again to set foot on British soil or her execution would be carried out. She had become an orphan of England, an assassin with no home and no country. She had become Scorpion, a hollow instrument used by the crown to further his majesties interests in France.

  No, she would never go back to England. Better to die at the hands of the French for a noble cause than to be executed by her countrymen for an injustice.

  Either way her life was over.

  The only question remaining, would she take another life with her? Nicole paused, never before having questioned the necessity of an assassination.

  Initially, she had performed the sanctions out of fear and self-preservation. Kill or be killed. And then it did not seem to matter, nothing seemed to matter. The men chosen were as evil as was she. She had been ordered to kill them and they deserved to be killed. It was quite simple, black and white.

  Until she met him.

  Daniel Damont had put ideas in her head, disturbing thoughts of justification and the right of one man to judge another.

  It was all very disconcerting.

  “You have been in prayer for quite some time, my child. Is there something of which you wish to speak?”

  Nicole looked up at the elderly priest, his hands clasped in patient contemplation, his sagging face lifted by kindness. She sat on the wooden pew and opened her mouth and then closed it, capturing her thoughts.

  “It is alright, mon petit. We are very much alone and all matters discussed shall remain between us and these four walls.” He smiled, his teeth hidden by his thin lips. “You are very troubled, oui.”

  It was not a question and all Nicole could do was whisper, “oui.”

  “You have a confession?” The priest leaned toward her with concern, his eyes holding hers.

  “No. Not yet.” Her eyes filled with shame and the kindly man nodded.

  “Ah, you contempt a sinful deed, no?”

  “Oui,” Nicole admitted, coerced by his gentleness.

  “It is sometimes good to discuss these things?” The priest waited patiently and the silence stretched as Nicole made her decision to confide.

  “If a man has determined to steal from another,” she met the man’s faded eyes, “And has confessed so to me, but I take no action. Am I then—“

  “Yes, you also are guilty of the sin of theft.”

  Nicole eyes filled with tears, knowing in her heart the truth of the priest’s pronouncement.

  “If you had attempted to dissuade this ‘thief’ or had warned the man to be robbed… No, you would be absolved of this sinful crime. But to sit by complacently and watch this theft occur.” The priest shrugged. “This is wrong in the eyes of God.”

  Nicole cried harder, searching for any doctrinal ambiguity. “And if this man cannot be dissuaded?”

  “His victim must be warned.”

  “And if I am harmed as a result of this warning? Is this right with God?” Nicole could not keep the bitterness from her tone.

  “Fear,” the old priest said regretfully, “is not an acceptable excuse for sin.” He placed his hand on hers. “If righteous men fail to protect the innocent of this world then wickedness will have victory and dominion over us all.”

  Nicole thought of the countless men and women of Britain’s haute ton that had sat by allowing her ordeal to continue, knowing it was happening, going to happen again.

  The innocent must be protected.

  “I am not a righteous woman.” And never would be.

  “A righteousness man is determined by righteous deeds.”

  “And if one sin is committed to prevent a greater evil?”

  “Such sins are for God to determine. If a man feels justified in accordance with the laws of God… prayer and his own heart must guide his path.”

  “You have been of very little assistance, father.” Nicole smiled, disheartened.

  The priest lifted his hands, conceding her point. “Men do not enter the house of God seeking easy answers, merely righteous ones.”

  “I would have preferred the answers I wished to hear.” She met his eye in feigned annoyance.

  “And I would have preferred to be taller.” He shrugged again and Nicole could not help but laugh as the elder priest rose to his diminutive height, saying, “Take all of the time you wish, mon petit. God will listen to your prayers.”

  “But will he answer them.”

  “Oui, he always answers prayer.” The priest held up a bony finger. “Just not always in the way we would like.”

  Nicole sat for a moment longer, contemplating what the priest had said.

  She had known what he would say, but perhaps that was why she had come to Saint Gervais. Nicole knew that the priest would never condone the assassination. But she knew also that God had given her such terrible trials so that she might understand the need to protect the powerless. She knew that God had made her strong enough to exact
punishment, no matter what the personal cost.

  In her heart, Nicole knew that the assassination of Joseph LeCoeur was not murder, but defense of the innocent in the midst of a wicked war devised by wicked men.

  ***

  Nicole Beauvoire returned to the apartment sooner than Daniel had expected.

  He tossed his leather bound copy of Atala by Chateaubriand on his bed and stood in the doorway of his bedchamber, his fingertips grasping the doorframe just over his head.

  “That did not take long?”

  “No, the toy shop had no other patrons today.” She glanced in his direction and for a moment Daniel regretted having removed his jacket. “I see you have given up your observations of Joseph LeCoeur.”

  Those violet eyes were rather fetching when she was angry.

  “Minister LeCoeur left his home several hours ago,” Daniel said, following her into the back parlor as he tucked the tails of his linen shirt beneath the soft buckskin of his breeches.

  “And how do you know the minister has not returned?”

  Daniel ducked his head and glanced out the window. “Still gone.” He grinned, winking.

  The lass was not amused.

  “Monsieur Damont, the Empress’s Toussaint Feast is in two days and while I realize this assignment impinges upon your imbibing, please keep in mind that it is my life with which you are playing.”

  “You’re the one playing games with your life, lass. We both know you could leave for London tonight. I’ve nothin’ to do with it.”

  The irritated woman sought a retort but found none. “Well, if you insist on staying, you might at least aid me in the observations.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “I know he’s gone!” She snapped then closed her eyes and sighed with frustration for allowing him to successfully exacerbate her. “I know Minister LeCoeur is gone at present,” she looked at him calmer, more controlled. God, she was pretty. “But you might at least have napped in front of the window.”

  Daniel stared at her angry expression and was unable to resist teasing her.