Page 1 of Lord Ashley's Beautiful Alibi
Prologue
June, 1800
Malmaison, the road from Rueil
France
It was ahell of a day for an ambush. The rain. The cracks of thunder. The sounds were enough that they’d frightened off the two feral cats who lived on the edge of this forest. Kane chuckled at how bad the weather was if those animals did not dare to come near his sack of mice.
Not a bad idea to use mice to run amok, clog the road, and surprise Bonaparte. But it was one thing to have a great idea to abduct the man and another to execute it. Better yet if the leader of the group showed up!
But Juvenot was not here, was he? He was late, the bugger. Not that Kane could impartially admonish a man who did not keep good time, but still. How could one be a proper assassin if one came late to the party?
Kane winced, lifted away his cap, and swept his long curls from his eyes.Where are you, Juvenot?
Kane had taken his position minutes after four this morning, hiding among the sodden underbrush and hoping his bag of mice did not all die in that double-lined sack. After he finished this bit of nasty business, he was headed straight for the Seine, the barge to Rouen, and home to Dover. He could not be caughthere. Even though his French reflected his six years spent at the superbEcole de Bordeaux, he never counted on too much circumstance to set him free. Especially not from the torture the French chief of police meted out to any British lurking in the shrubbery. Fouché and his lackeys had murdered his cousin Fabien Lamartine last year and had the audacity to send the sad remains to his Aunt Justine in Amboise. The woman had fainted at the sight and not recovered her wits for days.
To take Kane’s mind off Fouché’s bloodthirstygendarmes, he pulled open his smaller sack and took out yesterday’s baguette. He tried to take a bite but had to gnaw at the stale loaf. When he finished this bad bit of work this morning, first thing he’d order would be a large cup of coffee, a slab of bacon, and a fat chunk of Bûcheron cheese.
If I live.
He scoffed.
I will. What else can I do but go after the next target on Scarlett Hawthorne’s list? It’s not like anyone else pays as well or as promptly.
And then, as if the sun complied with this mission, the rain stopped. A rainbow instantly appeared over the tops of the trees. Aunt Justine had taught him the power of good omens. She believed in signs for every turn of events. Sunshine was one.
He, however, believed only in results.
He tried his baguette again, but stopped to save it for later. He stuffed it in the back pocket of his ragged pants, then cursed the man who was missing from this plan to block the road and kill Bonaparte.
The sound of horses on the road had Kane shrinking backward into the shadows of the dense green copse.
Horses! How many? He shut his eyes and counted hooves. Three horses. No, two riders headed for Malmaison.
Where was the carriage with Bonaparte? Had Juvenot gotten his details wrong? Was Bonaparte on a horse? Or if thiswasJuvenot on horseback, why did the idiot come openly in the thoroughfare?
Kane stepped back further into the cover of the forest. The tree branches around him rustled and shook. Nothing like the density of a French woodland. He raised his hand and could not see it beneath the veil of green leaves and heavy vines.
This could not be Juvenot approaching. He would not come with an entourage on the road. These riders had to be some advance guard of the first consul. Bonaparte never traveled without protection. He was a smart man, this Little Corporal who was hailed as the newest savior of the French Republic.
Kane mouthed his dislike of Juvenot and the Corsican alike. But, being a good man, he gave the signature whistle ofchuck-chuck-chuckto notify his comrade Alphonse, down the lane at the Malmaison gate, that some stranger came.
But why didn’t Pascal whistle to alert Brussard and me we have intruders?
Pascal and two others manned the firewood piled up beneath an old oiled tarp. Whoever came along the lane had passed those three men hidden near the clearing.
Had they seen the three? The firewood? Had they realized how it was to be used?
Afterthe Terror, everyone feared a pile of wood or furniture or street lamps. Barricades were the engine of any revolt. Or assassination.
If these riders had seen or suspected anything, they would gallop toward the house and guards.
He froze at the sound that met his ears. They trotted…andlaughed! In fact,they giggled!
They had not seen the wood, the tarp, the men, nor perceived the intent.
He parted the leaves of the trees and squinted through the slits.
