Swordsman's Legacy

“Besides Dumas’s journals, which you have read,” Ascher said, “I’ve had opportunity to pore over some of Nicolas Fouquet’s voluminous writings.”

“The royal financier who was imprisoned for embezzlement,” Annja said.

“Yes, unfortunately he is known for that small mistake.”

“And for being a pornographer, thanks to Louis XIV.”

“Falsified evidence. He merely copublished a racy little tome with Madame de Maintenon. She did the majority of writing—he edited. He really was so much more.”

Annja smirked. “And here I thought your favorite Frenchman was King Henri III.”

“The most reviled of the Valois kings—because of his homosexual tendencies—but I’m interested in them all. Do you know Fouquet also had a huge lending library that was the greatest collection of research books in all of Europe? It attracted political advocates and patronages. Fouquet intended to use it to rise in position in the government. But the king wasn’t having it. I’m not sure why Louis XIV was angry with Fouquet. This all happened before the infamous arrest after the lavish party at Vaux le Vicomte.”

Annja hadn’t known about the library. “What happened to the library after his death?” she asked.

“It was divided up and sold. Madame Fouquet managed to save his personal journals. I’m surprised I found the little I did at the Bibliothèque Nationale. The man made copies of virtually every important document he created for the royals, be it for purchases of land or certificates of patents to the nobility or coded secret missives. He was a secretive Saint-Simon, if you will.”

The duc de Saint-Simon had been an infamous chronicler of the seventeenth century, his diaries amounting to thirty published journals. Much like a modern-day entertainment program, Saint-Simon had reported all the salacious and juicy details of court life.

Annja had always wanted to get her hands on Nicolas Fouquet’s private journals, for he had been close to Charles Castelmore during his imprisonment for embezzlement. Castelmore had been forced to stay with and tend him while imprisoned as Fouquet waited the king to either call him back from exile or begin proceedings for his trial. It took well over three years, during which the musketeer had not the opportunity to command his troops or engage in martial combat. It must have been hell for d’Artagnan, she thought.

“I believe Dumas had access to the Fouquet papers, as well,” Ascher said.

“To look at you, no one would mistake you for the scholarly type,” she commented, turning her attention back to the rapier.

“Please don’t let the word get out.”

She gave a little laugh. “And here I thought you were nothing more than a treasure hunter.”

“You say the title as if it is so offensive.”

“Treasure hunters have no reverence for history, the condition of a dig site or the people who left behind the objects. Archaeology is all about learning the why, what and where. Treasure hunters could care less. They storm in, kick aside the dirt and haul away the booty.”

“I’m very meticulous before I haul away the booty.” He delivered her a charming wink. “I know how to backfill a site, returning it close to its former state.”

“Even when you’ve got gunmen breathing down your neck?” she asked.

“I am very busy man, Annja. I have…had alliances.”

That statement struck Annja oddly. But she knew now she should not be surprised at anything Ascher said or did.

“Those men who tried to steal the sword,” she said. “You knew them.”

“As I’ve said, I have never seen them in my life.”

“That may be, but you were not surprised by their arrival,” she pointed out.

He drew himself up straight, but with a sudden wince, he clutched his side.

“Did you get hurt tonight, Ascher?”

“It is nothing. An old injury, as I said earlier. Just surprises me now and then. I’m usually quite fit, and can perform remarkable feats with my body. As a traceur, one uses his whole body to perform. An injury keeps me from participating.”

“The parkour? ”

“Yes. A traceur is one who practices parkour. I do not like it when I am injured.”

“It’s been a trying day. Maybe a heating pad?”

“Perhaps.”

Ascher pressed his palms to the white paper and leaned in, his shoulder brushing her arm. Annja could hear his breath catch—he was in pain.

Compassion didn’t come easily for her. She wasn’t a hugger, nor did she often feel inclined to ask anyone “How are you?”

She’d give him some space. He’d take a moment if he needed it.

Tension strummed through her, but it was divided between excitement and the nervousness of being close to a man she had thought to know better than she apparently did. A man she had initially thought to trust.

“Enough small talk,” Ascher said in a whispery tone. “I am well. Are you going to check to see if it is in there?”

“You’re giving me the honor?” she asked, surprised.

“But of course.”

Tilting her head, she peered into Ascher’s eyes. When fencing, it was critical to maintain eye contact with the opponent. The enemy’s next move always first showed in his eyes. But she saw nothing to clue her to defense. And when had she started calling him an enemy?

His mouth slightly parted, Ascher waited expectantly. A shadow of a soul patch dabbed his chin, and lower, a pale white scar curled out of view under his jaw. The adventures that drew him appealed to Annja perhaps more than he did.

Annja let out a breath and placed both palms to the paper, before the rapier. “Can I trust you, Monsieur Vallois?”

He propped an elbow on the marble table. Mischief now danced in his pale blue eyes. A dangerous mischief. While it threatened, it also intrigued. Adventure or not, Annja wasn’t completely oblivious to the opposite sex.

“How can we know when to trust anyone?” he asked.

“That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”

“I can ask the same of you, Annja Creed. Can I trust you?”

“You invited me here. I’m just along for the ride. Amusement-park ride, as it may be. Just tell me before we do this—who wants the sword?”

Huffing out a sigh, he pressed his chin into his palm and eyed her straight on. He was hiding something, and Annja could sense his need to blurt it out. Men always kept their feelings bottled up. Yet their secrets often simmered just beneath the surface, easily excavated with adept care.

Kind of like you, eh, Annja?

“Annja, believe me when I say I have always intended to hand the sword over to France if and when it was found.”

“But now…?”