England's Assassin (17 page)

Lady Juliet Pervill sat in her parlor with her arms crossed over her chest as an annoying barrage of driveled washed over her.

“It is entirely too dangerous, Juliet.” Lord Barksdale shook his chestnut head. “The blackguard in the alley saw your face. He may even have recognized you. Identifying the man to the Foreign Office is ill advised.”

Juliet rolled her eyes and sighed with tolerable impatience. “Real Robert, if I did not recognize him then it is highly probable that he did not recognize me.”

The young Lord Barksdale continued stalking in front of the settee on which she sat as if he were her infallible guardian. “The murderer could know
of
you, darling. You must admit that your father travels in rather seedy circles.”

Juliet felt a flash of irritation. Lord Pervill was a bastard, to be sure, but she and her mother were the only persons allowed to label him as such.

“You’re over rot,” Juliet said, rising. She walked to the bell pull, sure that a cup of tea would do the agitated young lord some good.

“I am not over rot, Juliet.” Robert lifted his sculpted chin, saying in his most deeply masculine voice, “You are not to go the Foreign Office. I absolutely forbid it.”

***

Lady Pervill alighted her carriage a quarter of an hour later, stepping onto the hallowed ground of Whitehall. Men in every shade of gray scurried passed and she squinted against the sun to locate the front entrance of the Foreign Office.

Locating it, Juliet lifted her shirts and walked up the steps, a gallant gentleman holding the door open as she swept inside. She took a moment to look about the impressive foyer as she made her way to authoritative figure asking, “I have some information that I wish to discuss with a representative of the Foreign Office. Would you be so kind as to direct me?”

The enormous man looked down and with a thick cockney accent, said, “Do ya have an appointment?” in a tone that bordered on the rude.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. You see, if I knew with whom to make the appointment, then I would not be speaking with you.”

The man’s unruly eyebrows pulled together as he tried to decide if he had just been insulted.

“You can’t speak with a member of the Foreign Office without an appointment, ma’am,” the man said, deciding that he had.

Juliet proceeded into the hall to find a gentleman with some modicum of intelligence but the large guard blocked her progress.

“I’m afraid, you will need an appointment.”

“Look here, sir. I have information concerning several murders which took place two nights ago--”

“Well, miss, that would be a Home Office matter,” the man smirked, the condescension wafting off of him.

Anger sharpened her mind as well as her tongue.

“You will address me as Lady Pervill,” Juliet’s displeasure was audible to every man in the front entrance. “Furthermore, you will fetch,” she paused, using the word intentionally. “Your superior and tell him that I have information pertaining to the murder of a prisoner being transported to Newgate prison two night passed.”

All heads were now turned in her direction, but Juliet paid the gentlemen in the foyer no never mind.

“If you do not perform the task for which you have been hired, I shall make sure that you employer is aware of your insolence as well as your disregard for the lives of the six men murdered.”

A tidy gentleman, not much taller than herself, wandered on the scene. “It’s all right, Mister Jones. I shall take Lady…?”

“Pervill,” Juliet said in way of introduction.

“I shall escort Lady Pervill.”

The guard nodded once, embarrassed by her dressing down. “Very good, my lord.”

The gentleman held out his arm and Juliet took it, resuming the order of things.

“You must forgive, Mister Jones,” the gentleman said smiling as the proceeded down the main corridor. “It is his job to… assess the significance of visitors to the Foreign Office.”

Unconvinced, Juliet slipped him a sidelong look. “The man is large. I will give you that, but he is not very good at the assessing portion of his post.”

“No, I’m afraid he is not.” The gentleman chuckled, ushering her through a myriad of doors. “Mister Jones is just returned from Portugal and unaccustomed to dealing with the fairer sex, much more a woman of your caliber.”

Juliet knew damn well when she was being placated, but she liked it nonetheless.

“If you would not mind waiting a moment or two?”

“Not at all.”

The man knocked on a nondescript door and then entered. Juliet strained to listen but heard only muffled conversation before her amiable escort returned, saying, “This gentleman will be able to assist you, Lady Pervill.”

Juliet entered the small room and glanced at the old man behind the desk, disappointed. She had half hoped to be shown to some dashing officer who would fall at her feet and thank her for the vital information needed to apprehend the villain that had murdered those unfortunate men.

But this man was neither young nor dashing. He was not even an officer for goodness sake.

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Lady Pervill.” Falcon nodded at his assistant to close his office door, while trying not to laugh at the girl’s obvious disillusionment. “I was told that you have some information pertaining to the murders of six men?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

He stared at her wholesome face and dusting of freckles, understanding why Mister Jones had stopped the young lady. She looked all of twelve.

“I am told that you made quite a scene in the foyer,” Falcon said, adding disapproval then watching her reaction, noting not one twinge of embarrassment.

“I came to the Foreign Office because I have information pertaining to the murder of those men.” She began. “What difference could my behavior possibly make to them? Indeed, my inaction would harm their families and the investigation of their murders a great deal more. Don’t you agree?”

Falcon ignored her rhetorical question and looked down to hide his sharpening eyes.

“What is this information you believe that you have, Lady Pervill?”

“I saw the murderer.”

Forced back in his chair by the woman’s revelation, Falcon very nearly knocked his coffee cup to the wooden floor.

“How do you know it was he?”

“It was the murderer.” The girl’s eyes held, burning with intelligence. “The man was covered with blood.”

“Go on.”

“He was rather short, young, twenty five or so. French in appearance, dark eyes and hair, olive skin; handsome. He was impeccably dressed with a golden waistcoat and white gloves that were covered in blood.”

“How did you happen upon him?”

The young lady paled, which from his cursory assessment of this woman’s character would take a great deal to accomplish.

“He threatened my companion, Lord Barksdale.”

“What did the man say?”

“Nothing, not a word, which further indicates that the man was French. As to our ill-fated meeting, I was traveling to the opera when Lord Barksdale’s driver happened upon the scene. Seeing no signs of danger, the Lord Barksdale went to assist and the murderer appeared from the shadows nearest my side of the conveyance. The man revealed a knife… I understood his meaning. He had, after all, just killed six men.”

“Are you sure it was only one man.”

“Quite.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it in his eyes. He…” The young woman lifted her eyes to meet his. “He enjoyed it.” She swallowed. “Killing, he enjoyed the killing of those men.”

Falcon nodded, his thoughts flickering to his murdered friend, Colonel Lancaster, who had insisted that he ride with Lord Cunningham to Newgate.

“Thank you, Lady Pervill.” Falcon rose to his feet. “You are a very brave to come here.”

The young lady shrugged. “I am in no danger. If the murderer wished me harm, he would have done so then. No, I suspect this Frenchman has long since fleed London.”

“Why do you say so?” Falcon asked, intrigue by her logic.

“The man was very calm and I believe had formulated an escape route prior to the murders. I would have.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.” The girl said with not a moment of hesitation. “Six armed men—I would have planned my attack very carefully, as well as my escape.”

Falcon laughed, deliberately lightening the mood. “I fear for your Lord Barksdale.”

Lady Pervill smiled, once again resembling a child of twelve. “As well you should.”

“Thank you, Lady Pervill. I shall inform you if the murderer is apprehended.”

“He won’t be, but it was kind of you to offer, my lord.”

Falcon watched the girl leave, thinking her undoubtedly correct. He sat down, nevertheless, and dutifully pulled the files of known French collaborator’s working throughout England. However, none of the men presently being watched matched the description of this bold assassin.

He wrote down this murderer’s description and stared at his desk, wondering how to relay the information to Scorpion, wondering if the lady was still in Paris. He prayed to God that she was not. Many of his agents had already returned to London safely, but Scorpion’s situation was… complex.

Falcon had hoped to send Daniel McCurren to Paris with not only a warning, but also with a pardon. However, it was felt by certain members of the Foreign Office that the lady’s extraordinary service to the crown only further proved her capacity toward violent.

Idiots
.

He spun the wooden top and stared as it twirled about his desk alongside his frustration. The brightly painted circles move across the toy and an idea took root. Falcon snatched the top up and turned it over, smiling at the name scrawled in blue paint. 

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.

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.”