England's Assassin (25 page)

“Why not shot the girl?”

Daniel’s brow furrowed. “The girl was not my target.”

“Never fear, Scorpion, your poison might kill her yet.”

“Pardon?” Daniel’s heart stopped, the vibrations of his shock ringing in his voice.

The major’s mouth lifted at one corner. “An innocent death pricks your conscience? This is amusing… and useful.”

Daniel set his features trying to hide the depth of his concern, but the man continued to assault him all the while watching his reactions.

“Yes, the woman drank a portion of the poison and is even now fighting for her life.”

“Unfortunate.” Daniel shrugged, terrified. “We are, however, at war.”

“Oui,” His capture nodded. “We are indeed at war, Monsieur Scorpion. Sergeant,” he shouted down the hall.

“Oui, Major Rousseau?”

The major look over Daniel’s naked torso, saying, “Bring my tools,” with a gleam in his black eyes.

Seamus McCurren stared into the fire with a brandy in one hand as he listened to the endless prattle trickling from the mouth of Christian St. John. Not, to be clear, that Seamus was unappreciative. Quite the contrary, Lord St. John could be very amusing at times and Seamus appreciated the man’s effort at keeping his mind occupied.

Unfortunately, every day that went by without news of his brother seemed to drain his mind of the ability to concentrate on the world around him.

“I could not believe the lady’s boldness. She just sat in my lap and propositioned me, knowing full well that the lady with whom I was sitting was my current mistress.”

“What did you do?” Seamus asked not really interested in Christian’s never ending exploits.

“What kind of cad to you take me for, Seamus?” His fair brows furrowed with indignation. “I thank her for the kind offer and told her that I was not interested. But I did keep her card,” Christian added with scoundrel’s grin.

Seamus chuckled and sipped his brandy, saying, “Has it never occurred to you St. John that these events do not merely ‘happen’ as you so staunchly claim, but rather that you attract them like—“

“Bees to honey?” Christian’s blue eyes sparkled.

“I was going to say like flies to manure.”

“Are you calling me a pile of dung?” Lord St. John left brow rose. “Wait, don’t answer that and no, I do not think I cause any of these things to –“

Christian was interrupted by a knock at the parlor door. Their eyes meet and Seamus said, “Come,” trying not to feel the fluttering in his belly which turned to an absolute thunder when his butler announced.

“The Duke of Glenbroke wishes an audience, my lord.”

“Show him in.”

Seamus set his glass down and placed both hands on the arm of his chair pushing himself to standing.

He bowed as the powerful duke entered the room followed by an elderly man whom the majority of the ton consider to be of no account at all.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I take it you have word of Viscount DunDonell or you would not have ventured out on such a miserable evening?”

The duke’s continence was grim and Christian St. John cut the tension by offering, “I’ll just get some drinks, shall I?” reminding Seamus of his lack of hospitality.

“Yes, thank you Lord St. John. Gentlemen,” Seamus indicated the settee facing the fire. “Do have a seat.”

The enormous duke lowered himself onto the overstuffed chartreuse settee and crossed his legs before saying, “We believe we have received word of your brother. Thank you.” The duke looked up as Lord St. John handed him a snifter of brandy and the older Falcon picked up where the duke had left off.

“An operative working in Paris has just sent a missive with information which we believe refers to your brother.” The old man held Seamus’ eye while waiting for Christian St. John to resume his seat.

Seamus clenched his jaw and his stomach. “Go on.”

“The viscount has been captured.” Falcon gave Seamus a moment to take the blow and then continue the barrage. “My mentions said that a man meeting your brother description was brought to Concergerie nearly three days ago.”

“Has he been executed?” Seamus asked, swallowing the rather substantial lump in his throat.

The Duke of Glenbroke lean forward, picking up the reins. “The missive was sent the moment this man was brought to the prison.” His silver eyes, sharpened. “We have no idea what has occurred over the last three days, nor can we confirm that this man is ever your brother.”

Seamus nodded, staring at the floor. “Let us be honest gentleman. How many six foot two, wide as a barn door, handsome as the devil gentleman with auburn hair are residing in Paris, much more get themselves arrested at the same instant my brother is delivering a message for the crown?” Seamus took a large sip of brandy. “The odds are exceedingly low.”

“Yes, they are.” Falcon said and Seamus could see in the brown depths of the old man’s eyes that this little visit was a way of preparing Seamus for the inevitable news that his brother had been executed. “Exceedingly low.”

“Is there nothing to be done?” Seamus asked, dreading having to inform his parents of this miserable development.

“No, I’m afraid not, my lord.” Falcon shook his head. “The viscount is not only in enemy territory but in the capital, being held behind the walls of France’s most impenetrable prison. Many of my agents have already returned to London and the few that remain are themselves in danger.” The old man sat back looking his age. “I am sorry.”

The four men sat in silence and the duke eventually broke it, saying, “I am very sorry, Seamus.” He began to rise, saying, “Please let me know if there is anything–“

“Let’s go and get him.”

All three men turned to look at Christian St. John, but it was the elegant Duke of Glenbroke whom recovered first. “Pardon me, St. John?”

Christian’s bright eyes met his. “Let’s go and get him.” He pointed to Seamus and then himself. “The two of us.”

“Lord St. John,” Falcon felt it necessary to council the impulsive young man. “This is not a game. It is very likely that if you travel to Paris and attempt a rescue of the viscount, you will be killed.”

“Damn it all,” Christian looked at the Falcon and then the duke. “I’m not a simpleton. I realize the risks. However, I am heir to nothing and will hardly be missed and Lord McCurren here has enough brother’s to form their own battalion. Besides,” Christian winked at Seamus. “I think we have rather a sporting chance.”

Seamus stared at Christian St. John, at his handsome features and amiable smile. He was the sort of man everyone liked. Charismatic, friendly and very entertaining company, not to mention the gentleman had the ability to talk the skirts off of any lady he set his sight on.

“Do you speak French?”

“Fluently,” Christian grinned.

“This is madness,” the duke gave an exhalation of disbelief. “I will not send two gentlemen to Paris to retrieve one. All three of you could be killed.”

“Fortunately,” Christian St. John said rising, “it is not up to you, Glenbroke. Right, McCurren, I’ll secure our transportation. You search your musty old books for as much information on the prison… Conciergerie?” He turned to Falcon to confirm and the old man nodded. “Any underground pathways, drainage areas ect...”

“Christian, your brother and father will never allow you to go.”

“There again,” Christian’s Nordic eyes turned to blue ice in a rare show of temper and a unwavering stubbornness which many would never suspect the impulsive lord to possessed. “My personal affairs are not determined by the duke nor the marquis.”

“Ian will not be pleased.” The young duke said of his closest friend and Christian’s older brother.

“Tell the marquis to stay bloody well out of it, Your Grace.” And then the amiable Lord St. John returned, smiling like a child about to depart on some marvelous adventure. “Well, I had best go pack! I shall meet you here later this evening and we can discuss our findings?” he asked and Seamus nodded, still in shock from the news of his brother’s capture.

“When do you think we can depart?” His mind was spinning with the work that needed to be done and Seamus was thankful to have his thoughts occupied will something other than Daniel’s impending execution.

“Tonight?” Christian looked at Falcon.

The old man rose to his feet, sighing as he said, “I shall make the arrangements. However, this evening is impossible. Better you leave in the morning on a ship that will take you directly to Paris.”

“Excellent,” Christian St. John said as he accompanied Falcon out the parlor door, leaving Seamus alone with the concerned Duke of Glenbroke. 

The door closed and Gilbert de Clare looked at him, holding his eye. “You will both be killed, Seamus.”

“Most likely,” Seamus finished his brandy, setting the heavy crystal on a side table to the right of his chair.

“Daniel would not want you to do this.”

“I want to do this.”

“And St. John? Is Christian to give his life attempting a rescue that will very likely end with all three of you dead?”

“No.” Seamus shook his head. “That is why you will ask Falcon to give Christian the wrong departure time. I will arrange to meet Lord St. John at the docks, but my ship will already have sailed for France.”

“Christian will be furious.”

“Yes, but he will be alive.”

“Will you inform your parents?”

“No, I will pen a letter before I go. Would you be so kind, Your Grace, as to give it to them in the event that I do not return.”

“It will be difficult for them to lose you both.”

Seamus nodded, looking at his old friend.

“You have no siblings, Your Grace, so perhaps this will be difficult for you to comprehend. I could not live with myself, knowing that I did not do everything in my power to save my brother.”

The duke leaned forward, sympathy filling his steely eyes. “Daniel may already be dead, Seamus.”

“But he may not,” Seamus said resolutely, as the duke stared into the fire. “I would like for you to be the one to inform my parents?”

The duke cleared his throat and ran his finger through his dark hair, nodding. “Of course.”

The enormous Duke of Glenbroke rose as they shook hands and in an unprecedented show of intimacy, Gilbert placed his left hand on Seamus’s right shoulder.

“Be careful, Seamus.” The duke gave his farewell with his concerned eyes.

“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.

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, glancing 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.