England's Assassin (21 page)

The sunlight penetrated Daniel’s eyelids and he registered somewhere in the back of his mind that it was morning. However, it was not the sun but the banging at the front door of the apartment that roused him to some semblance of wakefulness.

He pulled on his buckskin and a linen shirt with great reluctance, wondering where Nicole had wander off to. They had much to do this morning and Daniel smiled to himself as he walked to the door.

Last night, the lass had confessed her love of him and it was a great load off his mind. He was not sure that his heart could have taken the blow if Nicole had rejected him, but thankfully she had not.

The lass was in love with him. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way that she had made love to him. They had been of one mind and one soul, just as he had always imagined love to be, to feel and Daniel could not help but grin with contentment.

Oh, it had been a shock to learn who she was, who she had been, the infamous Lady Stratton. Yet, after seeing the scars on her back Daniel, nor any sane man, could blame the lass for defending herself.

His stomach clenched when he thought of the pain she had endured at the hands of her blackguard of a husband, but it was tempered by a strange pride. Nicole Beauvoire was more than capable of defending herself and she had no need of him to do it for her.

Perhaps that was what was so damned appealing? The lass had chosen him. Nicole was in no need of his money or his protection, but she was in want of him.

The pounding at the door persisted, cutting short his gratification and Daniel sighed with annoyance, calling, “Just a moment,” as he shrugged into his jacket and slipped on his hideous shoes.

It had taken hours to convince Nicole to return to London with him, but in the end he had managed to persuade her. Daniel was sure that he would have no difficulty in gaining his father influence to plead her case for a pardon. The lady had served the crown faithfully and successfully for two long years and Daniel had no doubt that her loyalty would be rewarded.

Grasping the brass knob of the entryway door, his mind was filled with the preparations that would need to be made for their return to England. They would need to secure a ship to Honfleur, where Nicole’s British contact would be able to book passage to London. Then they would formulate their stratagem for presenting her case to the authorities.

Daniel opened the front door and the moment the catch gave, he was rushed by four men before he had a chance to react to the ambush. His mind came instantly awakened with the fear of Nicole’s capture and he struck one of the assailants in the jaw, knocking the man to the wooden floor.

He spun round to face the French soldiers, but before he could pull back to unleash a second blow, his right arm was seized by two other men. They used their combined weight to drive him to the carpet, knocking the breath from his chest and before he could regain it, he was being gagged, his arms and legs skillfully bound.

The four men stared down at him and to Daniel’s great surprise, he saw that they were not French soldiers but sailors.

All four were breathing heavily from their scuffle, when the youngest complained rubbing his cheek, “The lady said that he was big, but I think the bastard broke my jaw.”

The lady?

Daniel ignored the emotional kick to his gut and began thrashing the moment he realized Nicole’s intentions. He had to stop her from performing this assassination. He had to convince her that she would survive if she returned to London, that he would protect her.

The sailors wrestled him to his feet and desperate he butted one in the head, causing the man to stagger backward, his left eyebrow dripping with blood. Too late, Daniel glimpsed the downward thrust of cosh as it came crashing down on the back of his head.

And then he saw nothing, slumping forward as the four men dragged him from the stylish apartment on the fashionable Place Vendome.

***

Nicole stared at the afternoon sun, knowing that the deed was done. Daniel was gone, safely tucked away in a carriage heading to Honfleur.

It was for the best, she knew, that he return to London, and she reminding herself that she was an assassin with no use for the sentiments of love or regret.

Swallowing her misery, Nicole thought of the assassination that would conclude Scorpion’s grisly career. Tonight she would avenge Andre Tuchelles’ murder and earn the years of life the lady of Newgate had given her.

She envisioned what she would say, how the assassination, under such scrupulous security, would be managed. Nicole went through her script again and again, thoroughly, painstakingly up until the very moment that she rolled up to the impressive Tuileries Palace.

Nicole shivered as she stepped from her carriage, amazed that the weather could turn so quickly. She glanced up at the dark clouds, her breath short puffs of smoke. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she made her way through the maze of landaus on her way to the front entrance where she was quickly ushered inside.

Mademoiselle Beauvoire handed the butler her invitation and was shown to an enormous saloon where she was offered coffee and cakes while her luggage was taken to her assigned bedchamber.

“Coffee only, Merci,” Nicole said to the footman, glancing about the room and praying that she did not encounter Joseph LeCoeur before she was prepared.

“Mademoiselle Beauvoire. Was it not?” A masculine voice said from behind her.

“Oui,” Nicole still, smiling as she turned to find a strikingly handsome blond staring down at her, his hands clasped behind his back. “And whom do I have the pleasure of acquainting myself?”

“Ah.” The gentleman stepped forward, sweeping away the exquisitely tailored tails of his fawn jacket so that he might position himself on the settee adjacent to her delicate brocade chair. “But we are acquainted Mademoiselle Beauvoire and you wound me deeply to have forgotten the occasion.”

The gentleman grinned rakishly as he reached out to capture her hand so that he might kiss it. Nicole waited until the man had lifted his head so that she might look him in the eye.

“Marquis La Roche!” Nicole purred. “How charming to see you again, but you must forgive me as I have never seen you in anything but a dressing gown.”

Several mouths feel open and the marquis roared with laughter and her implied intimacy.

“Oui. However, I believe my custom of Zeus would more aptly be described as a toga,” the marquis said loud enough for others in the saloon to hear.

“Oh, Oui,” Nicole said as if she had just remembered. “You made a rather charming God.”

“And you made quite the tempting Goddess?” Marquis La Roche whispered, a rake once again. “And if I recall,” he leaned forward. “You were rather an accomplished artist.”

“Pardon?” Nicole widened her eyes innocently. “Did I paint something for you?”

“Oui.” The marquis held her eyes. “Your invitation.”

Nicole raised a brow and grinned. “You can hardly blame me, Marquis La Roche. I had heard from so many young ladies what delightful company you are.”

“It is so nice to be appreciated.”

“Mmm.” Nicole sipped her coffee.

“And are you here on your own, Mademoiselle Beauvoire, or have you managed to acquire a genuine invitation?”

“What difference could it make now that I am here? Or perhaps you were more interested in the former?”

The marquis smiled, glad for her understanding. “Are you here on your own, Mademoiselle Beauvoire?” His russet eyes shone with interest as the rake awaited her answer.

“Alas, no,” Nicole shook her head, her black curls bobbing. “I am merely accompanying a guest of Empress Bonaparte’s.”

“A gentleman guest, I presume?” the marquis nodded, confirming his own question.”

Nicole lifted her shoulders and asked a question of her own. “Is there any other sort of guest?”

“Oui,” his heated gaze travel from her head to toe and back again. “There are most definitely other sorts of guests, much more charming and entertaining sorts of guests.”

Nicole glanced at the other ladies buzzing about the room and the marquis. “And so very many choices.”

His eyes darted to the other women and then back to hers. “Who is this fortunate gentleman you accompany?”

Nicole saw no reason to lie as she would be on the minister’s arm very soon. “Minister LeCoeur.”

“Ahh,” Marquis La Roche lifted his head and sat back in his chair as if everything had been made clear to him. What had been made clear, she had not an inkling. “This explains everything.”

“What explains everything?” Nicole’s violet eye were staring expectantly and the marquis enjoyed toying with her a moment longer.

“I was questioned by the minister’s men and now I comprehend why?”

Nicole’s heart stopped, but she was too experienced to allow her tension to become visible. “Questioned?”

“Perhaps, I say too much?” The marquis shrugged. “But then again, I would be most pleased to have you annoyed with your escort. I was asked by Minister LeCoeur’s men if I knew from where you hailed. I told them that I had not known you prior to the masquerade and I am afraid,
mon cherie
, that I informed them of you fallacious invitation.”

Nicole went pale, her spine stiffening.

“You are annoyed with me, Oui?” Marquis La Roche smiled and inclined his head toward her. “I beg your forgiveness, Mademoiselle Beauvoire, and am more than willing to atone for my indiscretion.”

“Mademoiselle Beauvoire,” a footman called, her room now ready for occupation.

Nicole rose and looked down at the amused marquis. “You appear to be too late, Marquis Le Roche,” before walking out of the Empress’s saloon with her head spinning.

Evariste Rousseau examined his pistols, before stepping down from the carriage that would carry the illustrious Minister of Police to the Empress’ Toussaint feast.

“You two come with me.” He motioned to the most experienced guards. “The rest of you remain with the landau.”

The major man swept down the arcades of Place Vendome, his eyes scanning the square as the sun descended behind the architectural balanced of its buildings.

“Wait here,” he said, posting the two guards at Minister LeCoeur’s front door, wary of a frontal assault.

Evariste lifted the heavy brass ring and knocked. A footman opened the door and the major said not a word, looking through the man and toward his employer.

“Punctual as always, Major Rousseau.”

Evariste ignored the compliment, thinking it his duty to arrive when ordered. “Your valet and luggage have been sent on to make ready your room.”

“Excellent,” the minister stepped from his home, the two guards at his heels. Joseph LeCoeur placed his beaver skin hat upon his head then stopped when he caught sight of the carriage. “A bit much do you not think?”

“Pardon?” Evariste asked, confused.

“Seven men, Major Rousseau?” the minister smiled. “Am I so very frail?”

“Scorpion—“

“Scorpion,” Minister LeCoeur spat, stepping into the landau. “Is but a man and my horses have their limits. No more than four guards. You and I shall ride inside.”

“Oui, Minister LeCoeur, but might I remind you that Lord Cunningham was guarded by a mere five men.”

“Very true, Major Rousseau,” the minister smiled, adding, “But Cunningham was not guarded by you.”

Evariste inclined his head, honored and deeply proud to have his talents acknowledged.

“There is another matter,” Major Rousseau began with caution, the carriage lurching forward. “Which I feel must be discussed.”

“Go on.” Minister LeCoeur’s eyes narrowed with interest.

“Mademoiselle Beauvoire--”

“God above!” Evariste was interrupted by an exasperated exhalation. “Have you nothing better with which to occupy your time?”

“The lady is—“

“The lady is my mistress!”

“The lady is a charlatan,” Evariste said, crossing the line for the minister’s own protection.

“You had better have proof of that ascertain, Evariste, or our association is very much in danger.”

Their eyes met, held.

“You lose your head with this woman,” Major Rousseau said, trying not to feel the sting of betrayal. “So much so, that you would dismiss a man who has served you faithfully for six years?”

“Tell me of this information,” Minister LeCoeur grated through clenched teeth.

“Mademoiselle Beauvoire leased her apartment—“

“I know all of this,” the minister rolled his eyes. “You tell me nothing new.”

“Were you aware that the woman has hired no servants bar a coachman?” Minister LeCoeur eyes darted to his and Evariste felt the vindication. “Were you aware that Mademoiselle Beauvoire forged her invitation to the masquerade ball at which you met?”

“How do you know this?”

“Marquis Le Roche was most helpful.”

The major watched his employer’s mind hone. “Go on.”

“A Parisian merchant sends packages to her sister in Honfleur. Yet, no family of prominence is known by name of Beauvoire in the entire city nor in the region for that matter.”

“Did you inquire as to the family Damont?”

“Oui, none in Honfleur have ever heard of Daniel Damont.”

“And in Paris?”

“I was able to locate the apartment of Monsieur Damont,” Evariste said, pausing with smugness. “At Place Vendome.” Shocked stilled Minister LeCoeur and Evariste continued the torrent of unpleasant information. “They have been residing together for--”

He was interrupted when Minister LeCoeur’s fist came down atop his exquisite beaver skin chapeau, crushing it.

“Enough of Mademoiselle Beauvoire,” Minister LeCoeur said, his nostrils flaring, his lips struggling to conceal his anger. “Tell me of your preparations for Scorpion,” the minister ordered, turning his attention where it should be.

Major Rousseau began his report of the exhaustive measures taken to capture this most elusive of English assassins.

“You will have but one room assigned to us thus limiting the access Scorpion will have to your bedchamber. I have two of my most trusted men guarding your bedchamber door, and, in consideration of the General Capette’s assassination, I felt it prudent to position two men on your balcony.”

His employer nodded in approval. “And you?”

“I will be at your side the entire evening, Minister LeCoeur.”

“Bon.”

“As you know,” Evariste reminded him of his cleverness. “I selected the Toussaint feast as the sight for your assassination as the guests will all be searched upon arrival and the footmen are all guards, highly trained to protect Empress Bonaparte.

They have, naturally, been informed of the situation, leaving Scorpion to deal not only with our men but with hers as well.”

“How many men have we?”

“Combined with those of the Empress?” Evariste took a moment to calculate in his head. “Over one hundred.”

The minister raised a brow, impressed. “The guards at my bedchamber door, Scorpion will anticipate. The other guards are to be kept out of sight lest we send Scorpion scurrying beneath his rock.”

“As you wish, Minister LeCoeur.”

“I want him, Evariste.” His employer smiled. “I want the British bastard badly.”

“You will have him, minister,” Major Rousseau vowed. “On that I give you my word.”