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  Simon cleared his throat. “The marquis is dead.”

  They eyed Angelica weeping on the floor. One physician spoke up. “The marquise is most distraught. I have some sleeping powders…”

  “No!” Simon exclaimed. He’d seen their incompetence with Robert. He wasn’t about to place Angelica in their hands. “The marquise is distraught because her husband is dead. That is not an illness. Get out. Now! Your duties here are concluded.”

  Thankfully, they didn’t challenge him, and left.

  Simon turned to Angelica. He didn’t have the heart to pull her from the room. She had every right to remain as long as she needed. He, on the other hand, was choking with the need to flee the chamber. Robert was a man of strength. And he desired it in others. Robert had always demanded it from him. If Simon didn’t leave soon, he would most assuredly be in much the same state as Angelica. And this he couldn’t do.

  He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. Devastated by his monumental loss, he left the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The day after Robert’s funeral, Simon dressed and left the château while most were still abed.

  Pink and purple streaked the horizon of the indigo sky, shadows slowly disappearing with the dawn. Breathing the early morning air into his lungs, his brain, he rode hard across Robert’s lands, the horse’s hooves pounding the earth beneath him.

  Today he’d act upon the information gathered by his spies. After his morning ride, he was leaving for Beaulieu, and he’d ask Angelica to wait for his return on board one of his ships, where she’d be safe. Despite the marriage contract Fouquet had signed relinquishing all authority he had over her, Simon refused to trust a man as dishonorable as Fouquet.

  The wind blew against his chest. He urged his horse faster, welcoming the wind’s resistance, challenging it.

  He planned to bribe or fight his way into Beaulieu and attain the ledgers his spies had advised were hidden there. If Fouquet was hiding them, then they were of importance. Before Simon spoke to Louis, he would need all the damning evidence he could gather against Fouquet.

  Dismounting in front of the churchyard, he entered the stone church where the funeral had taken place the day before and walked over to where Robert had been laid to rest. A tall statue of the Holy Virgin and her child watched over the white marble crypt.

  The day’s first rays shone streams of light through the stained glass windows, creating patches of colors on the floor. A stillness enveloped Simon. Staring at the crypt, his throat tightened. It was difficult to believe Robert was gone.

  Simon placed his hand on the hilt of the sword against his left hip and unsheathed the precious item. Robert’s sword. A priceless possession bequeathed to him. It felt right in his hand. The very weapon he needed to take on a devil like Fouquet.

  He’d fought many battles with Robert. And he was going to fight this one with him as well.

  There was no doubt in Simon’s mind that Louis had serious concerns about his Superintendent of Finance. Why else was the king having Colbert review Fouquet’s ledgers when he’d always been given him carte blanche in how he ran the finances for France?

  Those hidden ledgers were key. Every instinct told him so. But would they be enough for Louis to take the final step and act against the powerful Nicolas Fouquet?

  Whatever it took, he’d live up to his three promises to Robert.

  “I fight this final battle with your sword, Robert. Help me to be faithful to all your wishes.”

  Bring down Fouquet.

  Win letters of nobility.

  Marry the woman Simon loved.

  A monumental task. He hoped that miracles did indeed come in threes.

  *****

  As Simon rode back to Château Névelon, a sense of unease settled in his bones. One he couldn’t shake. One urging him to ride faster.

  When the château came into sight, horror struck him through the heart. In the courtyard in front of Robert’s home, his men were engaged in battle with a larger group of unknown combatants. The clank of metal swords clashing rang in his ears. This was not a band of thieves, but well-fed, well-trained men. Cold terror flooded his body.

  His sole thought—Angelica.

  He leaped off his mount and ran, sword in hand, battle-ready, the violent beat of his frantic heart pumping his blood hot and fast. Wielding his weapon, he dropped each man who dared try to stop him from reaching Angelica inside.

  Fighting his way into the château, he gave a final thrust into the belly of the man who’d placed himself between Simon and the stairs. The man dropped his sword to clutch the fatal wound. Blood soaked through his shirt and oozed through his fingers. With a look of horror and surprise in his eyes, he fell to his knees, then collapsed forward.

  Bloodied bodies littered the floor of the grand entrance. He and his men were outnumbered two to one. The sounds of their losing battle, each and every cry, echoed in the high ceilings.

  Simon raced up the stairs, desperate to locate Angelica.

  Midway up, he got caught. With one assailant a few steps above him and another a few steps below, he could neither retreat nor advance. Simon struck a rhythm between the two attackers—thrust and parry back and forth, trying to fight them off.

  The man above lunged at him with his blade. Simon jerked to the side. Grabbing his wrist, he yanked him down impaling him on the sword of Simon’s other assailant. The man shrieked as the blade sliced through his chest. The downward momentum sent him crashing down onto his comrade, toppling both down the long staircase.

  Simon took the rest of the stairs two at a time, shouting Angelica’s name. The cries of those skewered still swirling around him.

  He slammed open the door to Angelica’s private chambers. His blood froze in his veins.

  She sat tensely in a chair.

  Eight men stood calmly in a row behind her.

  Her green eyes were large, looking horrified to see him, almost as though she wanted him to run off rather than have him run in and aid her. As if that was a consideration for him. He’d lay down his life for her.

  Nicolas Fouquet appeared quite relaxed, seated calmly to her right in a nearby chair, with a goblet of Robert’s favorite burgundy in hand. He looked smug and not the least bit surprised to see him.

  Simon squeezed the hilt of Robert’s sword, his breathing hard and audible through his flared nostrils.

  “Daughter, here he is now.” Fouquet smiled. “And you said you knew nothing of his whereabouts…Tsk, tsk.”

  “Fouquet…” Simon’s tone was low, full of barely restrained violence, his every muscle poised with murderous intent.

  Fouquet lifted a brow. “That is my lord to you, beggar born.” He lifted his goblet and took a drink. “Daughter, do tell, why do you allow this man in your home now that your husband is dead? Oh, don’t think to deny it, my dear. Your mode of dress gives you away, not to mention that one of your servants was good enough to advise us of the marquis’s death—before the lad met with an unfortunate accident.” Fouquet smiled. Some of his men softly chuckled. He nodded toward Simon. “This man is no better than a barbarian and far beneath your station.”

  Simon snorted. “Some could say the same of you.”

  Fouquet lowered his cup from his thin lips, indignation narrowing his eyes. “I come from the most distinguished of parliamentary families,” he said. “You, beggar born, are no more than the son of a fishmonger. Common scum.”

  “Enough!” Angelica rose to her feet. “You’ve no right to do what you’ve done here, forcing your way into my home! Having your men attack my guests. How dare you! Monsieur Boulenger and his men are welcome. You are not. Take these animals”—she gestured to the others in the room—“and get out!”

  He could only imagine how difficult it was for her to have to face her stepfather after what he’d done to her. It churned his stomach with disgust each time Fouquet called her “daughter.” Hearing it was far worse than enduring his insults.

  Though Simo
n had always admired her courage, she was making things difficult for him. He wanted Fouquet’s attention to remain solely on him, away from her. Yet there she stood, trying to protect him and his men.

  Fouquet calmly placed his goblet down on the table that separated him from Angelica. Studying the state of the fingernails on his right hand, he lightly commanded, “Do sit down, Angelica.” A man behind her reached out and yanked her down onto the chair by her hair. She cried out and clutched her head.

  Simon stepped forward immediately but froze when he saw the gleam of a dagger resting horizontally against her throat—the man who had just forced her to sit, holding it there, perversely gleeful.

  A fresh wave of terror slammed into his gut.

  “Drop your weapon,” Fouquet ordered Simon. His expression was as cold as the metal of Simon’s blade.

  “Don’t do it,” she whispered hoarsely, knowing as well as he how untrustworthy Fouquet was.

  Though his entire being rioted against his inaction, Simon stood stock-still. He battled back blinding rage, knowing it would cloud his mind. He would be focused when dealing with devil before him.

  Fouquet stood and strolled over to Angelica. Her hands were clenched into tight fists on her lap, and her soft breasts rose and fell rapidly with her quickened breaths. Simon could see her accelerated pulse on the side of her neck near the blade against her throat. Oh, how you’ll pay for terrorizing her this way, Fouquet…

  “My stepdaughter is not as intelligent as she is beautiful.” Fouquet took the dagger from the man who held it against her delicate throat and squatted down beside her. Immediately, she looked away. Using the flat of the blade against her jaw, Fouquet turned her head to face him. “Drop your weapon, beggar born, or watch what I am capable of doing to her.”

  She flinched.

  Simon pushed back his panic and schooled his features into a smug smile. “You won’t do a thing to her. The king likes her too much. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He’ll not take kindly to you harming a beautiful woman.”

  Fouquet was unfazed. “I’ll tell him you harmed her, beggar born. Who would believe your word over mine?”

  Simon laughed mirthlessly. “You cannot be that arrogant. Why would anyone believe I would harm Robert’s widow?”

  Praying his confidence would unbalance Fouquet, he pushed him a little further. Simon lifted his arm, pointing Robert’s bloodstained sword at Fouquet’s chest.

  The collective whisper of the eight swords being unsheathed filled the silence around him. He heard Angelica gasp. Unaffected, he remained poised and said, “Remove that dagger from her, or you’ll meet with the end of this sword.”

  For an instant, Fouquet’s eyes flashed shock. Then his arrogant expression returned. “You’re outnumbered eight to one. You’ll never succeed.”

  “The end of my blade is only a short distance from you. Willing to wager with your life?”

  “You’ll be dead too.” Fouquet indicated his men.

  “Yes, but I’ll take you with me.” His tone was firm, full of resolve. The smugness drained from Fouquet’s face. Fucking coward. The man wouldn’t last an hour in battle.

  The slight color in Fouquet’s cheeks was proof he’d further infuriated him. The man didn’t like being bested, especially in front of an audience. All the better. He had more public humiliation in store for him. Just wait… The key to success in any battle is knowing when the most opportune moment is to strike.

  “I came here for you, beggar born. Not her. Drop your sword, and I’ll remove the dagger.”

  Simon was relieved to hear it. “Not acceptable. Remove the dagger, and then I’ll drop my blade.”

  Fouquet held his gaze. Simon held his breath.

  Fouquet tossed the dagger to its owner. Angelica leaped to her feet and placed a safe distance between herself, Fouquet, and the man with the knife. Thankfully, she knew her stepfather well; she didn’t run to Simon or do anything to give away the extent of their involvement.

  He knew what would happen to him the moment he dropped his sword. His taunts and blatant disrespect wouldn’t go unpunished. Wishing to spare her from witnessing it, he said, “This is between you and me, Fouquet. Send her away.”

  “No,” she protested.

  “Send her away.” Simon could feel her gaze on him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, unsure he had it in him to keep his feelings for her from entering his eyes. Fouquet would use it against them. He couldn’t risk it.

  His heart lurched when he realized Fouquet was studying her, suspicion growing in his dark eyes. Simon immediately dropped his sword. The clank it made as it hit the floor snapped Fouquet’s attention back to him.

  Two large men seized his arms and bent them behind his back.

  “Stop that!” Angelica’s voice rang out. “Release him!”

  Simon shouted in Italian, “Any man here who understands me and is willing to join me will be paid three times what you’ve been promised.”

  “What is he saying?” Fouquet spun around, looking for comprehension on anyone’s face.

  Simon noted that not one man understood him. Without looking at Angelica, he continued. “Don’t do anything to indicate you understand, my love. Whatever happens, find as many of my men who are able to ride as you can and send them to your place of birth. Tell them to find the hidden ledgers there and to take them to the king.” Angelica remained silent.

  “Enough!” Fouquet commanded and approached.

  Standing before Simon, Fouquet folded his hands behind his back and lifted a brow. “Whatever tricks you think to try, rest assured, I am cleverer than you,” he advised.

  “Why are you here, Fouquet? What are you after? And who are these men?” He struggled, testing their hold on him.

  “My friend, Neuchesne, you remember him, don’t you, beggar born? He is the Commander-in-Chief of the King’s Navy. You know, the same navy that deems you unfit to serve. Neuchesne was good enough to lend out these men to detain you and your motley crew until the king orders your arrest.”

  “Arrested for what?” Simon knew his questions were only delaying the inevitable beating coming to him.

  “You’ve been stealing from France, keeping its profits for yourself. You’ve not paid your due to the Crown treasury for some time. Furthermore, you’re a notorious rebel who has hidden behind the Marquis de Névelon for too long, inciting other rebels and amassing an army which you plan to use against our country and our king.”

  “You’re mad!” Simon roared. “And you can never prove any of your lies.”

  “Oh, I can and I shall. Young Paul has told me everything that I want to know, and thanks to him, I have proof that you hold the prize of your latest capture, refusing to pay it to the Crown.”

  Cold dread sliced through him. “You have Paul?” Simon had sent for most of his men, but Paul and some of the others had yet to arrive. “He’s young… What have you done to him?”

  Fouquet shrugged. “He’s old enough to sign a confession. Apparently, he is slower than your other men at getting away. Capturing him wasn’t difficult, I’m told. And his threshold for pain is quite low…” He chuckled along with the other men.

  “Dear God…” He heard Angelica’s horrified whisper.

  “Where is he? Is he—” Simon stopped abruptly, unable to say “dead.” He pulled at his arms, sickened that Fouquet would prey upon innocent Paul.

  “Easy.” Fouquet smiled. “You’ll see him soon enough. I am having a party in a few days, a celebration to end all celebrations at Château Vaux-le-Vicomte. The king will be there along with all the nobles. Everyone of significance. I plan to entertain them in a manner so lavish that they will rave about it for generations. At the end, I will present Louis with a prize. You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. We all know how sensitive Louis is about rebel uprisings, after the revolt eight years ago. He’s in need of a new diversion. You will be a great help in giving him something to focus his attention on—by being ar
rested and tried. Just think of the recognition you’ll finally receive after all these years. Albeit dubious.”

  “You are truly mad.”

  “No, just very clever. The king will be grateful that I was able to purge you from our midst, and he’ll rethink his decision of abolishing the position of First Minister. I am, after all, the only viable candidate. Even the nobles would agree.”

  “You’ll not get away with this,” Angelica said. “You are not removing him from this house.”

  “Daughter, he’s just a commoner with far too much impudence for his own good. It is time someone taught him some manners.” Fouquet snapped his fingers.

  A large man walked up to Simon and slammed his meaty fist into his midsection. The air rushed out of his lungs. He collapsed forward, fighting to draw a breath.

  “No!” From the corner of his eye, he saw Angelica take a step toward him. Fouquet caught her arm.

  Simon’s head was pulled back by the hair. A fist slammed into his jaw, causing white sparks to flash in his eyes.

  “Stop it!” Angelica cried.

  “Daughter, I think you protest too much over this man.” Fouquet turned to Simon. “Why is that, peasant dog? Why is she so concerned for your welfare?”

  Simon tasted blood in his mouth. “I know this is a novelty to you, Fouquet, but she just might possess human decency.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. Look at her.”

  Simon refused.

  “Look at her!” Fouquet commanded him. Simon forced his gaze to meet hers. He saw love as well as pain in her eyes before she looked away.

  “Have you touched my stepdaughter, beggar born?”

  “No.” He hated to deny it, but there was no choice here.

  “Has he touched you, daughter? Have you spread your legs for this worthless commoner?”

  She looked straight into Fouquet’s eyes and said firmly, “No.”

  Fouquet yanked her to him. “I don’t believe you. You are a liar and a whore.”

  Simon kicked Fouquet’s legs out from under him and spit out the blood in his mouth, landing it precisely on Fouquet’s cheek. “Never. Touch. Her. Again.” Each word was growled in a low, venomous tone.