England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  Nicole stared, as everyone did, when the unexpected Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte entered the saloon with his elegant Austrian wife Marie Louise on his arm. The Emperor nodded in warm welcome toward his guests while the aristocratic Empress looked through them.

  It was the first time she had ever seen the Empress Marie Louise and she could not help but stare and the strange couple. The girl was just that, a girl half the age of her darker, rougher husband. Her fair hair was not quite blonde but not quite brown either, she was neither beautiful nor ugly but was undoubtedly an aristocrat with the superiority of six generations of royal blood flowing through her veins.

  The Empress Marie Louise smiled elegantly as she walked passed her guest but her eyes held nothing of the warmth of her husband’s welcome. She stood to the right of her husband and he looked over his guest with hands outstretched.

  “It is so kind of you to partake in our celebration of Toussaint. It is fitting for us on this day to remember those loved ones which we have lost, particularly in these troubled times.” The Emperor paused reverently before continuing, “However, it is also appropriate for those of use remaining to appreciate the lives which we have been given and to celebrate the glorious destiny of France.”

  Several gentleman raised their glasses shouting “Bravo, bravo” as Minister LeCoeur watched, clapping politely.

  The Emperor continued his inspirational speech, taking his wife’s arm and patting her hand affectionately as he nodded toward his footman, saying, “Therefore, Madame’s and Monsieur’s, I introduce to you.” He stretched his right arm toward a set of side doors. “The King of Rome, Napoleon Bonaparte II.”

  The gilded double doors of the great saloon parted as a female governess entered carrying a small child of no more than six months enveloped in a velvet robe with a miniature crown sitting atop his blonde curls.

  The lady’s in the saloon simpered and Nicole beamed suitably at the tiny babe, knowing that unless the British were able to stop Napoleon’s forces, this child would surely inherit the continent, if not the world.

  “Now let us adjourn into the dining hall so that the Toussaint Feast can begin.”

  The Emperor’s guests clapped enthusiastically and the child was whisked from the room as the rich and influential members of France walked slowly toward their decadent feast.

  “What did you think of our future Emperor?” Minister LeCoeur bent his head to ask.

  Nicole looked up, smiling, “I thought him very small.”

  The minister chuckled appreciatively and they busied themselves with finding their assigned places at the dinner table. Minister LeCoeur pulled out her chair so that she might be seated before then seating himself.

  Nicole repositioned her silk shirts then paused, the hair at the back of her neck standing on end. She was being watched, for what reason she was not sure, but she had learned early on in her career to heed her intuition.

  Wary, she scanned the room, noting only the introductions being made up and down the long mahogany table. She glanced at Minister LeCoeur and saw that he and been observing her, anticipating something other than a late night tryst.

  She made her introduction to the elderly man to the left and then all was made clear as the first course of their dinner was served.

  “Tell me again of your family in Honfluer, Mademoiselle Beauvoire?”

  The minister watched her carefully and Nicole sighed with a frustration that belied her trepidation. “Do you inquire after my stepbrother again?”

  “In part,” the minister said, leaning forward to sip his asparagus soup thickened by fresh cream and topped with a paper thin slice of hothouse cucumber. “Oui.”

  Nicole looked down lifting up her spoon, taking a mouthful of the delicious soup before she began in pleasant tones. “My mother married my stepfather when I was fourteen and Monsieur Damont was eighteen. My stepbrother left to study in Paris and when he came home to Honfluer, I was a girl just turned eighteen.”

  “Your stepbrother seduced you?” the minister asked in hushed tones, his eyes intently on hers.

  Nicole tried not to feel the ache of lost as they spoke of Daniel. But Monsieur Damont was a fiction character created by Falcon’s assiduous mind.

  “Oui,” Nicole nodded as if they were discussing nothing more than the miserable weather. “But often a man able to seduce a girl,” she met his eye. “Is unable to keep a woman. We have discussed Monsieur Damont before and it tires me to speak of him again. My family is my own affair, and entirely separate from ours.”

  The minister waited until a plate of pâté was place before them, a glass of rich burgundy to accompany. “And how do you envision our affair to be Mademoiselle Beauvoire?” he whispered.

  His tone was so curious that it caused Nicole to glance up. “As I wish it to be, Monsieur LeCoeur.”

  The minister held her eyes, his attention acutely on her features. “And how do you wish it to be, Mademoiselle. Where do you see our liaison heading?”

  Nicole sensed his irritation and her heart sped up as she smiled, soothing him by breathing, “To bed, of course, Minister LeCoeur. My bedchamber is--”

  “You must come to me.” Minister LeCoeur stared at her as if making a decision.

  Nicole laughed nervously, praying to God that the minister was not deciding what the most appropriate time to arrest her. “I’m afraid that is not possib—-Merci,” she said to the conspicuously large footman as he laid beef burgundy before her. “It is not possible,” Nicole said beneath her breath, smiling for benefit of the other guest. “I would be seen.”

  “I have made special arrangements for this evening.” The minister dismissed her concern. “You need only to be ready in your bedchamber at midnight,” he said, challenging her.

  Leave?

  “To be taken to your bedchamber?” she whispered, her heart pounding.

  Minister LeCoeur smiled, saying, “Where else would I be taking you, Mademoiselle Beauvoire?”

  The man had some idea where else to take her; she could hear it in his voice.

  Nicole hesitated, her leeriness visible as she stared at the other guests, their clamor increasing in proportion to the generous distribution of the Emperor’s wine. But they seem ignorant of the dangerous game taking place right before their eyes. The positioning of pieces before the battle ensues. Nicole would have to draw new plans for the assassination, but thankfully Scorpion was very good at adjusting.

  “Midnight,” Nicole raised her glass, picking up his gauntlet, sure that before the Day of the Dead was over there would be one more to add to its ranks.

  The only question remaining, which one of them would it be?

  ***

  Daniel had to stop. He was half frozen and his horse near dead when he dismounted at a tiny tavern fifteen miles west of Paris.

  He tossed the stable master his reins as he slid to the ground, panting heavily as he said, “I require a mount as quickly as is possible. You can have my gelding in exchange.”

  The man looked Daniel up and down as well as his horse and deciding both had some quality to them, offered, “You can have this bay, I’ll fetch you when we’ve readied him.”

  “It is of utmost importance that I get to Paris tonight,” Daniel met the man’s eye. “Please be as quick as you can.”

  The man heard the desperation in Daniel voice and he called his stable boy to assist him. Daniel wondered inside the dingy tavern. The warmth of the fire washed over him and he closed his eyes with relief. Nicole sat alone at a small table nearest the fire and held his head in his hands, trying not to think.

  Nicole Beauvoire had sent him away because she loved him, but she did not trust him. She had never truly trusted him and the ache of it hurt more than his throbbing head.

  Hadn’t he proven himself to her? Hadn’t he shown her in every conceivable fashion that he could be trusted, that he would be there when she needed help, when she needed love.

  Damn it! He was not her husband.

  Dan
iel swallowed his anger for the man that had done this to her. The lass had relied upon herself for far too long and he had no notion if she would ever be able to trust him or any man again.

  He had to get to Paris. Daniel had to show her that he would be there for her when others were not, when others sat by as the bastard beat hell out of her.

  “Monsieur,” the stable hand called from the door just when he was beginning to feel his fingers again.

  Daniel braced himself as he stepped into the snow wishing to God that he had been wearing his greatcoat when they had abducted him from the apartment. The fresh powder crunched beneath his feet and he flipped up the soggy lapel of his jacket in the vain hope that the snow would stop finding its way down his back.

  The stable master handed him the reins of the old bay, saying, “Here you are, Monsieur.”

  The man helped Daniel mount the primordial horse and then tossed him a wool blanket. The dirty blanket no doubt offered out of guilty for their one sided bartering.

  “Merci,” Daniel wrapped the odiferous wool about himself then squeezing the reluctant bay with his thighs to send the animal into the storm.

  There was no moon in the sky and the snow fell so heavily that Daniel could scarcely see where he was going. But he continued on, squinting against the onslaught of white flakes and pointing his mount toward the lack of trees, assuming that to be the road.

  His teeth were chattering but Daniel tried not to think about the cold, he tried to remember his goal. Paris. He had to stop Nicole from performing the assassination and getting herself killed.

  The thought of losing her spurred him on and his urgency was bolstered by the increased frequency of cottages as he approached the outskirts of Paris. Daniel was exhausted but as the snow let up he sent the horse into a gallop, praying that they not encounter a patch of ice.

  By the time he reached the center of the city, the streets were empty and blanketed by a heavy snow that buried the constant stench of Paris beneath it. A church bell tolled twelve in the distance and he slowed his mount as the blazing torches surrounding Tuileries Palace came into view.

  He was so close but as Daniel stared at the well protected walls of the palace his stomach seized. He had no notion how to get inside, no notion how to stop the woman that even now plotted to kill the guardian of Paris on its most fêted ground.

  No notion if the woman he so desperately loved was even still alive.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Nicole flinched at the first of twelve piercing chimes when the ornate clock in her bedchamber struck midnight. She rose, breathing deeply as she paced the room, all of her mind focusing on the task given her.

  Mademoiselle Beauvoire waited dressed in her most provocative gown which did not begin to compare with her scandalous chemise. The costly garments were the tools of her sordid trade. The weapons that had been so effective in keeping her alive while she made others dead.

  Customs all, allowing her to perform the assassination as an actress would perform a play. Separating her from the inevitable guilt and despair she would inescapably feel afterwards.

  A soft knock at her door stopped Nicole cold, her eyes the only part of her not frozen by a peculiar foreboding. This would be Scorpion’s last performance.

  She would have to have been blind not to see that guards surrounding the palace, which is undoubtedly why the clever Minister LeCoeur had chosen this location to spring his sinister trap.

  But, unfortunately for the intelligent minister, there was one thing that shifted the odds of this assassination decidedly in her favor.

  Apathy.

  While the ambitious Minister of Police valued his life immensely, Nicole did not. She had become irrevocably numb the moment she had sent Daniel McCurren back where he belonged. The armed guards surrounding the minister were merely obstacles to be overcome, not a fate to be feared.

  Mademoiselle Beauvoire walked to the bedchamber door and cracked in open, saying, “Oui,” to the familiar footman staying before her.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Beauvoire.” The young man bowed his straight gold hair falling in front of his dark blue eyes. ”Minister LeCoeur has sent me to escort you to his suite.”

  “This is unwise.” She protested. “We shall be seen.”

  The guard grinned, his confidence clear. “No, we shall not, Mademoiselle Beauvoire.”

  Nicole nodded as the man glanced down the darkened corridor before gesturing for her to move forward. She followed but rather than turning left toward the staircase he turned right. They had taken only a few steps when the fictitious footman pushed open a discreet door that led one of the many servant’s stairwell of Tuileries palace.

  They rounded the spiral stairs as Nicole asked, “What did you think of the play?”

  The footman stopped on the step above, surprised that she had recognized him as one of Joseph LeCoeur’s personal guards. “I found the production as tender of heart as the men that perform in the theatre.”

  “And are you not of a tender disposition?”

  “Regretfully no, Mademoiselle.” They stared at one another, their points made. “If you remain close as we venture into the corridor.” The guard grinned. “The gentlemen of Paris have a tendency to stray from their beds.”

  “And is Minister LeCoeur’s bed very large?” She asked, not about to be discomfited by his implications, adding, “I so hate to be confined when I… sleep.”

  Nicole watched his eyes wander to her titillating gown and then the man cracked open the door to the servant’s stairwell, whispering, “The minister’s room is the second door to our right.”

  They crossed the hall with no difficulty, seen only by the two guards flanking Minister LeCoeur’s bedchamber door. The taller guard to the left opened the door and Nicole’s escort ushered her into the large room and then saluted.

  “Merci, Captain Turgeon you may resume your post at the front entry.”

  “Oui, Minister LeCoeur,” the fair captain gave Nicole one last glance before leaving the room.

  Nicole watched the door close, surprised that she had not been searched by the minister’s guards but allowed to enter his bedchamber unmolested.

  “Mademoiselle Beauvoire,” LeCoeur said, rising with refinement from one of two wingback chairs. The room was lit by a roaring fire and she knew the minister was not alone by the black Hessian boots peeking from beneath the other chair.

  The man rose to make his introduction and Nicole knew instantly that this was the man for whom Falcon had sent his warning. That he was the Frenchman who had murdered his own agent, Lord Cunningham, after having slaughtered five British soldiers.

  But what Nicole failed to understand was the hostility burning in his eyes.

  “My assistant, Major Evariste Rousseau,” the minister indicated with a sweep of his right hand.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” the man said, making no attempt at civility.

  “Bonjour, Major Rousseau.” Nicole was dismissive, turning her irritated gaze on her host. “I was lead to believe that you wished to be alone?”

  “I do wish it,” the minister met Nicole’s eye and her heart protested the greeting by seizing sharply in her chest. “Please, have a seat.”

  She glanced derisively toward the menacing major and said with raised brow, “Is your servant to remain, Joseph,” before sitting in a baroque chair nearest the fire.

  “I told you she was delightful,” Joseph LeCoeur chuckled. “Yes, mon cherie. I’m afraid Major Rousseau is rather involved in this discussion as he is the man who discovered your identity.”

  Her eyes darted to the younger man, the left side of his mouth lifting in satisfaction. Nicole always knew she would die, but looking at this assassin’s anticipation, she had never realized just how painfully.

  “Or should we say the lack there of?” Confused, Nicole turned to face her accuser. “I asked Major Rousseau to investigate the family Damont to see if you were worth marrying, but imagine my surprise when I learned that i
t was I who was the target of matrimonial ambitions.”

  “I have no idea of your meaning?” Nicole asked, eliciting a grunt of discussed from the minister’s lethal lackey.

  “Oh, do not be so humble, Mademoiselle Beauvoire. Your plan had merit. The coincidental renting of the apartment across the square was nicely done.” The minister held her eyes. “I must admit that it was the exorbitant cost of the apartment which threw me from the track of your true intension. You and your partner must have spent every penny you possess to blend into Parisian society.”

  “My partner?”

  “Daniel Damont, if that is indeed his name, played the part of spurned lover to perfection. The man is handsome enough to be your former lover and rich enough to be my rival.”

  “Daniel Damont is not—“

  The minister held up his hand, interrupting her denial. “I am afraid that there is only one way for you to avoid a charge of fraud, Mademoiselle Beauvoire,” Joseph LeCoeur crossed his legs and rested a pistol on his right knee, saying, ”You will become my lover, whenever I wish and for as long as I wish it.”

  Nicole had heard similar words on the night of her wedding, but she was no longer a frightened girl of eighteen. Her blood turned to ice as it always did before she killed and she met the black eyes of Major Rousseau.

  “I shall have to remove her clothing in order to search the woman properly.” The comment was made to Minister LeCoeur, but the assassin smiled as he looked at Nicole.

  “Leave that to me,” the minister ordered. “In the meantime you are to wait outside my door in the event that our illustrious guest chooses to arrive.”

  Mademoiselle Beauvoire smirked and the assassin held her eyes, before silently turning to join the minister’s guard’s, bringing their number to three.

  “It is not wise to challenge Major Rousseau, Mademoiselle.” Joseph LeCoeur remained in his chair, the pistol in his right hand as he picked up a glass of champagne in his left.

  “And you? I took you for a man who enjoyed a challenge.”