England's Assassin

by Samantha Saxon

  “I will,” Seamus said, both of them knowing that the odds of his returning to England were negligible.

  “Very well,” the duke smiled, breaking eye contact. “I shall speak with Falcon about St. John.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace, and if you could have him send a note round with the correct departure time?”

  The Duke of Glenbroke nodded and left as there was nothing else to be said.

  Alone once again, Seamus walked to his study and searched his extensive library for books on French architectural history, hoping to find some mention of the famed Parisian prison, Conciergerie and the obstacles that might await him there.

  ***

  The owner of the hell Dante’s Inferno sat behind an oak desk, tabulating the night’s considerable earning when a knock sounded at the door.

  Enigma glanced up, meeting the eyes of the man with large scar across his left cheek, a scar given him by his employer.

  “Come.”

  One of the brothel whore’s entered the room and closed the door, saying, “Do you recall the gossip of the viscount that went missing two weeks ago?”

  Enigma nodded, saying nothing.

  “I just had a patron from Whitehall. The gentleman said that there have been rumors that this viscount has been arrest in Paris and charge with the assassination of Minister LeCoeur.”

  “Mon Dieu, but Rousseau is a fool!” Both workers stared at their employer’s uncharacteristic outburst. “You may go, Chloe.”

  The door closed and Enigma pulled out a piece of parchment, hastily informing Major Rousseau of his idiocy, hastily laying out for the dim major how his captive could not possible be the assassin Scorpion as Viscount DunDonell has been in living in London for the past two years!

  “Take this to Paris on the next available ship.” The bodyguard bowed and Enigma stopped him before he left the office. “And ask Major Rousseau if he needs me to come hold his hand while he tracks the true assassin?”

  The man smirked leaving Enigma to wonder how in God’s name the Emperor intended to win this war with men as stupid as these.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Nicole emerged from the darkness, opening her eyes.

  Daniel!

  She scanned the dim room, her head throbbing as she made out the figure of a robust gentleman sleeping in a chair by the fire. Nicole sat up, the movement splitting her head and rousing the elderly man.

  “Oh, you’re awake,” he said excitedly.

  Nicole continued looking about Minister LeCoeur’s bedchamber and saw neither the minister nor his vicious assistant Major Rousseau.

  “What happened to Minister LeCoeur?” she asked, feigning ignorance as the gentleman walked toward her.

  “I’m afraid,” the man patted her hand. “That the minister was killed.”

  Nicole gasped. “He’s… He’s dead?”

  “Yes, mon petit, and you very nearly died along with him.”

  “I don’t understand?” Nicole said, letting the old man talk.

  “The champagne you drank was poisoned.” He leaned forward, titillated with the extraordinary events. “By an English assassin.”

  “No!” Her right hand went to her chest. “An assassin here? In the palace?”

  “We never would have caught the Englishman if he had not returned to verify his success.” The man’s chins jiggled as he looked at the ceiling in contemplation. “I do not comprehend why he would do such a thing.”

  “What has happened to this wicked assassin?” Nicole asked, distracting him from his deliberations.

  “Do not fear, mon petit,” he smiled, misinterpreting the motivation for her inquiry. “The Englishman has been taken to Conciergerie by Major Rousseau and rest assured that the assassin will pay dearly for his crimes.”

  Nicole’s heart dropped into the icy pit of her stomach. “How long have I been asleep?” she asked in desperation.

  “Now, now.” He patted her again and Nicole had to suppress the urge to scream. “You have been here for three days.”

  Three days!

  Nicole forced herself to swallow her panic and think.

  “Oh, my sister is expecting me in Honfleur.” She bit her lip prettily, her eyes widening in innocent concern. “Might I be able to send a letter to her explaining my delay?”

  “Of course you can, Mademoiselle Beauvoire.” The gentleman smiled and left the room, returning minutes later with paper and quill in one hand and a young soldier at his side. “Here you are.”

  Nicole wrote a brief coded letter to Falcon and then batted her lashes as she asked, “Do you happen to have sealing wax?”

  “Right here,” he smiled in triumph as he pulled the red paraffin from his pocket. “And I have already made arrangements for the missive to be delivered to your sister on your behalf.”

  Nicole paused at the irony of having a French soldier deliver a message to her British contact in Honfleur.

  “How thoughtful of you,” Mademoiselle Beauvoire said to them both, deciding that this inexperienced boy would think exactly what he had been told to think. She held out the letter and when the young private took it, Nicole clutched his hand between her own. “Oh, and you will hurry. My sister will be so very worried about me.”

  The soldier stared down at her will besotted eyes. “I will ride all night, Mademoiselle Beauvoire, if it will spare you sister one moments concern.”

  “You are so very kind,” Nicole said, caressing his hand as she withdrew. She made a great show of falling against the pillows as if the effort of speaking had been too much for her. “Now, if you gentlemen with excuse me, I believe I would very much like to sleep.”

  The soldier bowed, retreating from the enormous Minister LeCoeur room. The physician, however, remained with bushy, gray brows pulling together over dark blue eyes.

  “Major Rousseau has requested that I stay with you, Mademoiselle Beauvoire.”

  “Nonsense,” Nicole said with authority. “You shall work yourself to exhaustion and then what good will you be to me?” she asked, smiling.

  “Very little, I fear.”

  “Precisely!” Mademoiselle Beauvoire shrugged, nodding. “As you can see I will be fast asleep the moment you leave this room in favor of your own.” The physician appeared concerned and Nicole hastened to add, “And there is a guard outside after all.” The gentleman nodded in confirmation. “Who can retrieve you from your bedchamber if I am in need of you.”

  Nicole saw the man longing for his own bed, but she saw fear there too. “Major Rousseau—“

  “Major Rousseau has left you to see to my wellbeing. And I would not be able to sleep a wink if I knew that you were at all uncomfortable.” Nicole laughed. “You see. You must leave or you will be disregarding Major Rousseau’s orders.”

  The old man laughed also, thankful for her consideration. “Well, we must not have that.”

  “No. Good night, monsieur.” Nicole sighed, settling into Minister LeCoeur’s bed. “I shall see you in the morning.”

  “First light.”

  “Agreed,” Mademoiselle Beauvoire conceded then watched him hobble from the room on legs shaped like those of a cooked turkey.

  Nicole waited five minutes to insure that the doctor had gone before throwing back the duvet and quietly stepping onto the cushiony carpet. She located her garments which had been neatly folded on a corner chair and dressed herself from memory, her mind numb with shock and fear for Daniel’s safety. Her throat constricted and tears streamed down her cheek as Nicole recalled her last sight of Daniel being dragged from the room by French guards.

  Three days!

  Major Rousseau has had him for three days. Nicole pressed the tips of her fingers to her eyes, damming the flood of tears and all thoughts that Daniel might already be dead.

  Fear hastened the buttoning of her gown and Nicole took a deep breath to calm herself, to remind herself that she also was an assassin. Her mind shifted from Daniel to the task at hand and Nicole pulled on her shoes, glanci
ng at the door as she walked toward the balcony. The latch of the balcony door gave with a click as she pressed down on the brass handle. Nicole eased open the door, prepared with the excuse of needing air should the guards hear her depart.

  The night air had turned the rain to snow and she tucked her hands beneath her bare arms, wishing she had something with which to cover herself. But she did not. Nicole gritted her teeth and grasped the balustrade with both hands, ignoring the inch of snow that had accumulated atop the gray stones. She lifted her right leg over, thankful for the petticoat that insulated her inner thighs, and then her left.

  Her slippered feet were thrust between sculpted stone slats of the balcony and she looked down to the ground some ten feet below. The only way of getting down was to drop. Nicole took a deep breath, knowing no matter how she prepared her body the fall was going to be painful.

  But nothing compared to the pain Daniel had endured for three day, was enduring.

  She prayed.

  Nicole stepped off and tried to judge the distance to the white lawn, but the snow made the task all but impossible. She hit the ground hard, her knees buckling and sending her on her back. She scrambled to her feet and pressed herself against the palace walls, brushing as much of the snow from her body as she could before it was able to soak through her gown.

  This late at night, guards would be scarce and the snow would make their vision weak and their resolve even weaker. No, the difficulty would be exiting the palace grounds and hiring a conveyance before she froze to death.

  But perhaps that would not be necessary.

  Nicole kept to the shadows as she made for the huge stables, tucked discreetly away a short distance from the palace. Her feet were numb by the time she reached the door and Nicole was thankful that the huge stable had not been locked.

  The smell of horse and hay filled her frozen nose as she walked passed the countless conveyances. Nicole stopped at a particularly lavish landau and opened the smaller door praying for a coverlet. She found two, choosing the one make of ermine.

  Nicole wrapped the luxurious fur around her arms and she moaned at warmth and feel of the makeshift shawl. She continued toward the horses, searching in the dim light for a horse small enough and placid enough to meet her needs.

  Nicole rounded a corner of the paddock only to find two soldiers sitting atop a pile of hay playing cards. The young men jumped to their feet, as startled as she, and it took a moment for her to react.

  “Oh, thanks the saints that you are on duty!” Nicole said, berating herself for not having anticipated that the guards would have sought sanctuary from the snow. “I have just received word that my father has taken ill.” Mademoiselle Beauvoire began to cry and the soldiers glanced at one another in the helpless manner men have when confronted by the tears of a woman. “Major Rousseau said that I could make use of a horse.”

  The soldier’s paled at the mention of the major, glancing at her ermine stole and diamond stunned slippers. The older of the two licked his lips, uncomfortable.

  “We will saddle a horse immediately, Mademoiselle.”

  She was on her way with in a quarter of an hour. Nicole turned from the palace gates and sent the horse flying down the empty streets of Paris. She reached her apartment at Place Vendome at half passed three in the morning, her course of action decided.

  Nicole reached for the key she hid in the corridor and entered her apartment. Her ruined slippers went flying and she ran barefoot to her bedchamber. It was now in these idle moments as she disrobed that Nicole fears cloud her mind and her judgment.

  She took a deep breath, telling herself over and over again that she would do Daniel no good if she were unprepared. Nicole dressed in a midnight blue gown and with matching pelisse, the collar lined with black mink. Her petticoats were light for freedom of movement, but Nicole compensated with thick stocking and heavy boats. Her mass of hair she secured into a chignon before pulling on black kid gloves.

  Nicole stared at her reflection in the mirror going over every aspect of her mission. The most important she would ever undertake. She pinched her cheeks and licked her lips already made red from the cold. Mademoiselle Beauvoire was impressive, screaming of money to anyone that looked.

  But it was her behavior, the airy of superiority that would open the doors of the most ruthless prison in all of France, Conciergerie.

  Daniel would be there, she knew. Nicole had heard of Minister LeCoeur obtaining offices at the notorious prison in order to interrogate political prisoners. However, now that she had met his assistant Major Rousseau, Nicole was certain that it was he whom had performed the cruel interrogations.

  She only hoped that he was not their now, prayed that the major was tucked safely away in the warmth of his bed. Tired from the pain he had inflicted on Daniel beautiful body. Nicole lifted her chin, not allowing the tears to fall and reminding herself that Daniel McCurren was very strong.

  As was she.

  ***

  “I must confess, Monsieur Scorpion,” Major Rousseau began with a small knife in his right hand. “I have not done such fine work since Lord Cunningham was my guest.”

  Daniel’s head hung forward, his sweat mingling with blood as it dripped down his chest and pool on the dirty floor in front of him.

  “As a matter of fact, this is such good work that I believe I shall sign you.”

  Daniel’s mind flinched but his body was beyond all resistance. He gritted his teeth, knowing what was to come. The Frenchman went for his upper arm this time, the knife cutting in a downward motion.

  “Who else have you killed?”

  Daniel remained silent as he had for the last three days. He tried to swallow, but the effort was too much. The knife made three short incisions for which he was unprepared and then the sadistic man smiled at his rudimentary E.

  “Who?” the major asked, once again scooping up a fist full of salt.

  Daniel’s head turned toward the grating sound of the granules as Major Rousseau bent over and whispered in his ear, “Who,” before rubbing salt into the fresh wound.

  The excruciating sting of the salt caused Daniel to cry out. He clenched his fists to absorb the pain but it lingered, his entire mind centered on that one piece of burning flesh. The major waited until the initial pain had passed and then made a second downward slice in Daniel’s arm.

  “This may hurt.” The bastard warned before making a circular motion that gauged deep into Daniel flesh, followed by a slashing cut. “There,” Major Rousseau was breathing heavily. “An R.”

  The salt shifted a second time and Daniel asked, “For what does the E stand?” to delay the pain a moment longer.

  “Evariste.” The major smiled, “Evariste Rousseau is the name of the man that will kill you.”

  “Evariste?” Daniel chuckled, taking several deep breaths. “This is a woman’s name.”

  “Tell me, Scorpion,” Major Rousseau whispered so close to his ear that Daniel could feel the heat of his breath. “Is this a woman’s sting?”

  The major’s black eyes hardened as he crushed the salt into Daniel’s arm.

  “No,” Daniel licked his lips, panting. “But it is a devise used by cowards.”

  Major Rousseau’s left knee connected to Daniel’s ribs, causing day old wounds to reopen.

  “Who have you been working with in Paris?” The small man asked removing his jacket so that he might have the freedom to move.

  “I work alone.”

  “You have a method of contacting London.” Major Rousseau walked to the corner table and looked down, saying, “Describe this,” as he slipped on a set of brass knuckles.

  Daniel remained silent, his eyes little more than slits as the Frenchman walked toward him. He struck Daniel on his left side, a dull crack echoing in the small cell. Daniel doubled over blinded by pain and then his sight went completely as he faded into the God given gift of unconsciousness.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Seamus McCurren stood on the docks
with his arms crossed over his chest as he impatiently watched the final preparations for the ship that would carry him to Honfleur.

  He reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a sterling silver watch and was glancing down when he heard, “You bloody blackguard,” from behind.

  “Morning, St. John.” Seamus sighed and then turned to greet the man he was hoping to avoid.

  “Don’t fob me off, McCurren.” Christian pointed at his chest, his eyes ablaze with consternation. “You intended to leave me, didn’t you?”

  “Aye,” Seamus nodded, seeing no reason to deny what was clearly irrefutable.

  “Why?” Christian slammed his trunk to the ground. “Did you think me incapable?” Seamus opened his mouth to speak, but Christian was not finished with his rant. “Do you believe me ‘the irresponsible spare’ as does the majority of the ton?”

  That gave Seamus pause. “‘The irresponsible spare’? What are you talking about, St. John?”

  “Yes,” Christian mumbled. “I read the account, and the stupid designation, in the Gazette last week. But I can hardly be blamed for Lady Graves pawing me throughout the entire opera, can I.”

  Seamus laughed, “I thought that was the point of your taking Lady Graves to the Opera.”

  “Yes,” Christian said as if he were a complete idiot. “To have the lady paw me after the opera.” Seamus could not help but laugh. “I thought Ian was going to kill me. My brother sat in the front of our box with Lady Appleton and glared at me throughout the entire production. You know how the marquis is when he is irritated.”

  “Aye. However, in this instance I believe your brother had good reason to glare.”

  “Right, where were we. Oh, yes.” Christian fair head popped up and he looked Seamus in the eye. “You bloody Scots bastard. You were going to leave me while you ran off to Paris alone.”

  “Aye.”

  “Why!”

  Seamus looked at the angry Lord St. John but he could see the hurt in Christian’s light eyes. “I dinna want you to get killed, Christian.”

  The tension drained from Lord St. John’s shoulders and he smiled brightly, saying, “Oh, well, if that’s all it was then. When do we leave?”